


Rule The World Or Drown

by ashdeanmanns



Series: In All Our Years [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Natasha Romanov, BAMF Peggy Carter, Blood and Violence, Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes and the 21st Century, Bucky Barnes as Captain America, Bucky Barnes-centric, Canon-Typical Violence, Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls, F/M, Family Loss, Hydra (Marvel), Jewish Bucky Barnes, Long-Distance Relationship, Lost Bucky Barnes, M/M, Man Out of Time, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Bucky Barnes, Period Typical Bigotry, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Protective Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers as the Winter Soldier, Tags Contain Spoilers, Time Skips, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:33:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 59,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21861517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashdeanmanns/pseuds/ashdeanmanns
Summary: January, 1945 - Steve Rogers fell off a freight car, into the Alps.Just days later - Bucky Barnes crashlanded HYDRA's plane, the Valkyrie, into the Arctic.1947 - Bucky Barnes was liberated from the ice.The world wanted Steve Rogers. Bucky knew that.He was told they won. But Bucky had lost too much to really enjoy it. So he held on to one of the last people who knew Steve, knew him for what he was and not a blessing and a curse rolled into one. Peggy Carter. He tells himself he should, so he does. But she wasn't who the universe had wanted him to be with, and deep down, he knew it better than anything.His life was been taken from him, so he had to build a new one-one without Steve, without messy smears of charcoal and scattered colored pencils; instead with Peggy, with lipstick smudges and littered SHIELD files.Bucky tried to find his place in the world. He was a husband. He was a father to the best kids he could ever ask for. Then, all of a sudden, everyone he passed on the street hated him. All because of the past he had worked so hard to bury.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Peggy Carter, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: In All Our Years [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574968
Comments: 55
Kudos: 94





	1. 1940

**Author's Note:**

> This is the only thing I'm able to write, I wrote 10,000+ words of it in the first two days, and I'M SO EXCITED TO SHARE IT!
> 
> It starts off weird, I know, but I promise that there's interesting things in store! I gave myself a lot of room to explore Bucky's relationships, with people and the world, with himself, and I'm having so much fun. You guys have no idea.
> 
> There is a spotify playlist for this. If you go to my Instagram, @ashdeanmanns, the code will be in my story and in the highlight folder for this fanfic. If you message me, I will gladly send it to you.
> 
> As of posting this: chapter one is the only chapter that's completely done. I was going to wait and post it all at once, but I'm impatient and I have nothing else to do right now, so here we are! I figured this could be a taste of what's coming, reel people in.
> 
> I hope this story is enjoyed, because I'm so excited for it all to be out. It's more than 3/4 of the way done, and I'm writing every chance I get. Thanks for reading, guys!

**|** **1947 |**

S.H.I.E.L.D. Bucky wasn't surprised. He'd always believed in Peggy Carter - when she was dodging blasts from HYDRA's guns, when she and the other Howlies got the hang of using Steve's shield; but, most of all, when she kissed him before sending him off on the Valkyrie.

She always had the best intentions in mind. What idiot wouldn't trust a woman with that strength?

Now, they were both tearing up - he was _still_ freezing cold, her red lips trembled as she tried to reign herself in. She pulled the blanket tighter around him and him closer, until their noses brushed and their foreheads were pressed together - an intimate mannerism Bucky remembered having with Steve in the dark, gloomy apartment they shared. It felt so long ago, and maybe it was. Maybe this was some hallucination and he was still in the ice.

But he knew better. Sadly.

"Peg?" he whispered, dropping his head to her collarbones, her lips catching his forehead on the way down.

"Yes, James?"

"We're friends, right?" He hoped they were. Or, something. Anything. With Steve around, it had been easy. She was an ally. She was a fellow soldier, agent, whatever, and Bucky trusted her. She was there for his best guy when he needed it, when Bucky couldn't be there. She knew Steve Rogers for what he was, saw what Bucky and Miss Sarah had seen. For that, she was stellar in his book. Without him around, Bucky wasn't too sure of anything. With the kiss, with the closeness, he had to ask _what are we?_ For the second time in his life, he had no idea where he stood with someone he admired. The first time, he had to be careful. The world couldn't know, their families couldn't know _(Ellie figured it out on her own, and that was not his fault)_ , sometimes they couldn't even act like they knew. With Peggy...everyone in the world could know. They could go dancing in clubs that wouldn't be raided, they could walk down the street arm-in-arm, hand-in-hand, _just because they could._ Something deep in Bucky's soul twinged at the thought, guilt and the nagging realization that he was betraying everything he knew.

She pushed her fingers through his hair, the heel of her hand against his jugular. She was warm, gently pulling his head up to latch their gazes together. Her hazel eyes were watery, wide with emotion. "Why is this in question now?"

And the truth - the fact that he knew better than anything now, that he was a lonesome shitshow in a growing world he had been ready to leave, that he had left only to be pulled back, and he had no place; "I have nowhere to go."

She shook her head a few times and assured, like a mother might her child, "No. No, you still have your family -"

He shook his head right back, causing her to freeze. "They'll treat me different. You know that. Everything's changed." He reached up and tucked her dark hair behind her ears, showing her strong cheekbones and jaw. "I can't lay all this bullshit on my family. Not when they remember who I was before." _Before what? The war? The ice?_ Which one was he referring to, because they both changed him - the war made him face the darkness in himself, the side of him that liked his so called "talents," his abilities. The part of him that liked how well he could do the job given to him, that could forget they were people and not practice targets in his scope. A gun was an extension, not something to shake off or lose, because if lost, it meant despair. Bucky could have been walking death, especially after Zola got his hands on him. He practically vibrated with energy, and he crashed after too long of it. He needed _more._ He wasn't sure what, but he needed it, just like Steve had needed air before he was reborn.

The ice. The ice was something else entirely. He should have died. He didn't. Now he was living the consequence. He lost out on time, people - god, it only felt like a few days, but he missed _Steve_ and all of his light - but some deep part of him couldn't care. Maybe it was the ice, maybe it was his heart, but he felt numb. The anxieties handed to him were sweeping over his head, some sort of mudslide, and Bucky couldn't combat it. How could he? He had been ready for death. Now he was back to life.

Peggy cocked her head to the side, her hair falling farther down one shoulder. She tapped his cheek with two fingers. "Whenever you're ready, I have their contacts. We'll work something out, James."

 **|** **1948** |

Peggy told him to stay out of it, so he did. She would come back to their apartment in New York every night to him scribbling in books - correcting facts or etching remarks. The science fiction and fantasy novels sat in lopsided piles on his nightstand, filled with jokes and confusion and little slips of colorful paper. The history books sat in a stack on the floor on his side of the bed, stuffed full of papers and scribbles of blue and red ink. He added information to biographies of the first Captain America (the titles almost always left out the fact that he was Steve Rogers, not a mascot for the country) and left him simmering in rage within pages.

He was colorblind. He was an artist, sold commissions and lived on cheap supplies. He had his last rites read to him three times before twenty two. He was a fucking saint, an embodiment of the sun and everything good in the screwed-up world they lived in. He did what he believed in, what his heart told him to do - because his heart was all good. Yes, he felt like less than dirt. He felt like his illnesses owned him. But he kept his righteousness alive, to his death - where he fell in the place of a good friend.

The books - most had been corrected, after Bucky and Peggy had revealed the truth to the world. Steve Rogers was dead, and Bucky Barnes now held the shield. _(This also meant revealing what exactly went down when he was a POW, to prove that he was qualified as an enhanced_ _individual to_ _take the place of another)_ \- were how he was holding on. If he was pissed off, he was feeling something. If he got a paper cut from tearing pages, he bled. Cause and effect, a demand for a response.

Peggy slid into the queen-size bed, her legs folded under her, her vibrant blue dress rucked up around her thighs - but she didn't care. Bucky had seen more than pantyhose, and there was no reason to hide. They were partners, attempting to navigate the world through everything that kept them back. If she needed it, he would step in and shoulder the big boy jobs that a normal person wouldn't be able to do, so she didn't have to deal with whining agents that could somehow handle their inflated egos the size of Texas. Make her life a little easier, don't have to sign out field death reports. When he had his nightmares - which he often did - she would wake him up and hold him, whisper into his hair and the crook of his neck as he couldn't help but cry, as all his fears tried to pull him every which way and the dark edges of their room forced him back on the table -

"How was work?" he asked, looking up and letting his blue pen fall into the inside crease of the spine.

"Work was work, just how it always is, James." She smiled cheekily, and Bucky couldn't help but reach out and pull her close, tracing the tip of his nose down her cheek, over her throat, until he could kiss her shoulder and breathe in the perfume she had sprayed on her neck and wrists. Strawberry and chrysanthemums. Enchanting.

"What book are you destroying today?" she asked, craning her neck, ignoring what he was doing. But he could hear the smile in her voice, so he placed a few more kisses to her tender skin before he pulled back.

"It actually has to do with me. It's one of the recent ones." He closed the book, flipping the front cover up to show the glossy picture of Steve and Bucky, in the idiotic American flag outfit and the iconic blue coat. "How the shield's moved on, and it actually...it's true. They even talk about Azzano. _Nobody_ talks about that place."

She seemed to understand what he was saying, and laid her hands over his. "I'm glad you're exiting his shadow, darling. You don't deserve to be stuck there for any longer."

When he kissed her, he felt right.

Well. As right as he could.

**| 1949 |**

Bucky and Peggy walked along a bustling, permanently grey sidewalk, under a cesious sky. Peggy's arm was hooked through his, her fingertips light against the fabric of his suit jacket. As they were on their way to the restaurant, having already dropped their luggage at the hotel, Peggy was lost in memories, gazing up at select buildings and rambling idly to Bucky. "I haven't seen them in almost ten years. Not since I called off the wedding." She shook her head, as though taken by surprise. "Gosh, my mother was furious with me."

Bucky turned his gaze on her, eyes narrowed in disbelief. "You were engaged?"

She dismissed the question, heading in a slightly different route. "I was, what, eighteen? Nineteen - It was too soon. But then I got the offer to join Special Operations. What choice did I have? Stay for a marriage that wouldn't be fulfilling, that my brother didn't approve of, or follow my dream?"

When Bucky remained silent, she murmured;

"Have you been in love?"

His heart leaped into his throat. Should he lie? He should certainly tell some sort of truth, shouldn't he? It wasn't right to lie to her, make another fake layer of himself that he'd have to keep up until they died. Truth was, he was so in love with Steve that it hurt. There was something about losing someone you love more than anything in the world - you wanted them even more once they are gone. It's not that the longing changed, but it became more focused because you constantly had to remind yourself that _they aren't there anymore. You can't hug them. You can't reach out to them. You can't say a word to them. You can't do anything, because there's nothing to be done. Dust is dust._ _Ashes and withered bones._

The thing was - Bucky _wanted_ him something fierce. He and Peggy were listening to the radio, he wanted to judge the shows with Steve. He was on a mission with S.H.I.E.L.D., he wanted Steve at his six. He was rocking into Peggy, their foreheads pressed, he wanted Steve.

"Yeah, I have." It'd be Bethany, from the weekend double dates. It'd be Beth, with her dark brown hair and shy smile whenever he pulled her close; or when he wrapped his arms around her waist and plastered himself over her back, hooking his chin over her shoulder and pressing an obnoxious kiss to her cheek.

"And?" she prompted.

"Follow your dream. No question."

She smiled, tight-lipped. "Precisely. Did you ever have a dream, James?"

Yeah, he did. Or, had. Live happily ever after with Steve. No more war, no more fighting. Just a house in the suburbs, with room for Bucky's family, maybe a vegetable garden in the back. Find a good-paying job, have art supplies and books everywhere, make it completely their own; Make his Ma happy, shut out his dad until the bitter old man died.

All Bucky wanted was to be free. Make his own choices, make himself and the man he loved happier than either of them could imagine. He wanted to _live_ and not have to worry about a thing.

But he was still fighting the big fight. Working for SHIELD wasn't easy, but he did it without complaint. If Peggy and Howard made it, then how bad could it truly be? Besides, what else would the world let him do? He couldn't go back to the docks, or Rita's Deli, or even follow the dream of getting a job in the mathematic and scientific fields. He was Captain America, and the world - the government- wanted him to continue playing the part.

"Yeah, I've had dreams." He interrupted her questioning - he felt a twinge of guilt for it, but he moved past it; "So, what happened? With your wedding."

"My brother had called in a recommendation for me. The military approached me because of him. Then he died, and it felt wrong not to honor him and take it." He squeezed her hand, comforting her. She took a deep breath, blinking her emotions away. She added, hastily, "It was before the war, clearly."

"Clearly." He then let the topic go, understanding the grief. She pulled him to the restaurant just ahead of them, and Bucky pulled the door open. As they walked into a fancy setting, full of dull olive green and white aesthetic accents and glass, he whispered, "What will they think of me?"

She chuckled, leaning her head on his shoulder. "They're going to hate you because I hate you."

He grinned. "Aw, shucks! Jeez, Peg, all the work I do -!"

She laughed, musical and one of a kind. She tried to elbow him, but he used their position to his advantage and pulled her arm away from his side. He laughed when she untangled their arms and shoved his shoulder back.

"Margaret Carter, you know better!"

Peggy's eyes went wide for a few moments, before she pulled a polite smile on her face and turned toward the voice - a woman with Peggy's features and hair marched through the tables. The fabled Amanda Carter. Peggy greeted her, politely; "Hello, Mother," and pulled her into a chaste embrace, kissing the air beside her cheek.

Peggy's mother turned to Bucky, as an older man was coming up to the group. Peggy's eyes stared back at him through Harrison's, her jaw a ghost of his. Amanda fawned, "This must be the captain! It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barnes." All of a sudden, her hands were on his shoulders and her face was tucked right beside his, the corner of her mouth against his cheek.

"Really, pleasure's all mine. And please, call me James." Once she moved away, he held his hand out to Harrison, who reached and shook it twice.

"Come on! Sit, sit!" Amanda ushered the young couple to their square table. Bucky and Peggy snagged two seats beside each other, one of the corners of the table between them. One Bucky's right side sat Harrison. Amanda's eyes bore into him across the table.

Bucky carefully shouldered off his charcoal grey pea coat. He muttered, subtly leaning toward Peggy, "I'm going to he honest. I don't think I've ever sat at a table with a white tablecloth." She choked on her laugh beside him, which she forced out as a small cough into her wrist. Her hand dropped when she cleared her throat, pressing her palm to her sternum. She then flashed her parents the signature Peggy Carter smile, all straight white teeth and perfect red lips. "How have you two been? It's been years."

"Oh, you know. Moved house, cleared out all the junk." She cleared her throat, looking down at her green placement napkin. "We've seen you in the news, so I don't think you have to catch us up any."

Peggy's mouth twisted, and Bucky leaned forward slightly as he filled the awkward silence; "Actually, we've been busy, too."

"'We?'" Amanda echoed, sounding lost.

Peggy squared her shoulders, straightening her spine even more. "Yes, 'we.' James and I live together. We're..."

"Partners." It was a good word for them - in crime and emotionally.

"Yes." She smiled. "We are partners."

"And we haven't met the boy until now?" Harrison asked, condescendingly.

"I'm sorry, there's kind of an ocean between us," Bucky said, sardonically, leaning back in his seat. He didn't really care how they saw him, but Peggy did. So, he met her in the middle and didn't slouch.

Peggy took the chance to jump in and steer the conversation away from an argument. "But we're here now, and James finally gets to see my hometown! He was in the country for a short time, during the war."

"Why didn't you just get back in contact with Fred?" Amanda questioned Peggy, leaning forward with a laziness that hadn't been there before. She rested her chin on the back of her hand, which was bent at the wrist.

"I had my chance with him, Mother. I decided I wanted to do more. And I am."

"Yes, yes, you and that Howard Stark. Directors of SHIELD. You were on the inside of Project Rebirth. Can't believe they picked a random twig of a kid off the street."

Bucky looked up, glaring into Harrison's creased face. "That twig is a hero."

"Tell me - who went down in the plane?"

Bucky decided this guy had no clue what he was talking about. "He stormed an enemy base single-handedly and saved over four hundred men. He saved my life more than once."

"And the damsel in distress is the one wearing the title."

Bucky closed his mouth with a click of his teeth, before he could say something that he wouldn't regret but Peggy would be mad at him for. But if he wasn't slouching before, he was _definitely_ slouching now.

"Didn't you fall for that Rogers fellow, anyways?" Amanda asked, resigned.

"Steve and I had a complicated relationship - the war got in the way of what could have been."

 _I think more_ _than_ _one thing got in the way of that_ , Bucky thought, absently.

"Then what are you doing with the Captain?"

"My name is Bucky," he snapped, lifting his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes, leaning into his knuckles.

"James and I are doing what we can with what we've been given. We've been living with each other for two years - and I'm sorry you didn't meet him sooner, but he's right, there is a gap between us. I haven't met his family, either -"

"Hell, I haven't talked to my family since I got drafted." He talked to them before he went to basic, and visited his mother the day he was back home, the night he was told to report at the docks and sail to London. Nothing since then. He hadn't seen his nephew James and the baby Becca had been pregnant with when he had left. He hadn't gotten in touch with Ellie, who he shared a very specific bond with, a band that came from telling each other things about their partners that they couldn't tell anyone else. He hadn't talked to his parents, his mother being the only one he cared enough about to speak to. He loved his mom. His loved all three of his siblings.

God, he was _such_ a disappointment.

Amanda looked at Peggy with sad, round blue eyes. Lightly, she suggested, "Maybe you should find a different career, darling. The one you have now is eating up your life."

"It's not eating up my life, it _is_ my life. This is my purpose."

"To star in radio shows about Steve Rogers?" Harrison nitpicked. Bucky's blood boiled, up and over -

"You didn't see what was out there," he snapped, voice searingly hot. "You didn't see all the good Peggy did. She was our liaison. She was an extra gun on some missions. She was our eyes and ears. Without her, the Howling Commandos would have been simply traipsing through Europe. Your daughter is stronger than any woman I've ever seen - besides possibly my mother - and she is so much more than what you make her out to be. She doesn't have to sit pretty in pantyhose -" Amanda gasped, her eyes going wide, "- and frilly dresses. If she wants to, that's fine," he waved a hand," there's nothing wrong with that. But she doesn't want to. She doesn't want to conform, she wants to do what she can for the world. She's already done so much good, she's nowhere near done, and that's amazing! You should be the proudest parents in the world!"

Harrison and Amanda were both quiet, and Bucky didn't blame them. They couldn't say anything that would help their side. He turned to Peggy, question on his tongue, and stopped short when he saw the wet shine in her eyes and the smile tugging at her lips.

He did something right, at least in Peggy's book. And that felt good.

"I think we're going to head out. I wanted to go out to London, show James some of the sights." Peggy pushed her chair back and stood, and Bucky followed suit. He was barely upright before she grabbed his hand and pulled. He stumbled over the carpet, grabbed his coat, and somehow managed to keep himself upright until he found his footing.

Peggy tugged him out onto the street, pushing the door open with a flair seen in movies. She spun around, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him flush against her. She pressed her lips to his, smiling into the kiss - and Bucky decided that he would always do whatever he could to make her happy, if it got her to smile like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HIM. | SAM SMITH
> 
> I LOVE ROCK AND ROLL | JOAN JETT AND THE BLACKHEARTS
> 
> I DON'T WANNA LIVE FOREVER | ZAYN | TAYLOR SWIFT
> 
> RUNNING UP THAT HILL | PLACEBO
> 
> HABITS (STAY HIGH) | TOVE LO
> 
> WHEN WE WERE YOUNG | ADELE
> 
> ATLANTIS | SEAFRET
> 
> GOOEY | GLASS ANIMALS
> 
> CONVERSATIONS IN THE DARK | JOHN LEGEND
> 
> COLD | NOVO AMOR
> 
> BEFORE YOU GO | LEWIS CAPALDI
> 
> UNBROKEN | BON JOVI
> 
> NEW WORLD | THE IRRESISTIBLES
> 
> EVER SINCE NEW YORK | HARRY STYLES
> 
> WOULD THAT I | HOZIER
> 
> HONEYBEE | THE HEAD AND THE HEART
> 
> LEGO HOUSE | ED SHEERAN
> 
> WHO AM I LIVING FOR? | KATY PERRY
> 
> YOU FOUND ME | THE FRAY
> 
> NEW YORK | ANDREW BELLE


	2. 1950

**| 1952 |**

The whole world believed that Steve Rogers and Peggy Carter had been in love; it was the tragic war love story that had done nothing to get sold, that had been forced, but everyone wanted. Something could came out of the horrors, and that meant life would go on.

So why would anyone assume Bucky and Peggy were together? No one. Precisely the way they wanted it. They didn't need the attention. But they left their New York apartment one day in some of their best with their hands folded together.

It wasn't like they were trying to hide it. They already lived together. They had kissed in the middle of a street when they had visited Hampstead, but no one had caught it. The last of Peggy's family and her friends knew about him. If Bucky had friends - other than the Howlies, but they obviously knew everything - they would know. If he spoke to his family, they would know.

Maybe that was the purpose of their day. Bucky wasn't sure. Peggy had a fit and had called Rebecca while she had Bucky pinned beneath her, while he was protesting the hand in his hair and the knee in his spine. Now they were trecking out to a cafe, and his back - as it was whenever he was on edge - felt tense and frozen.

It kept up when they walked up the street toward the cafe, fingers still entwined. Even when his heart melted at seeing his sister.

Becca had been a few weeks off, by the time he left. Pregnant, grieving her husband days after he had been blasted over in Germany, the condolence letter glued to her hand.

Peggy let him pull away when he needed to, when his hand tensed and his fingers straightened. Then he ran, and Becca saw him - like the madman he was, because what else would their reunion be? She jumped up from her seat - _she was wearing trousers, atta girl!_ \- and met him halfway. They barrelled into each other, a mess of limbs and words, and god, Bucky realized now how much he missed her. How much he missed everyone. How much of their lives he had missed out on.

When they finally pulled away from each other, Becca shoved his shoulders, tears glistening in her eyes and the corners of her mouth twitching. "You didn't came back when you got out!"

Bucky just pulled her back in, holding her as tightly as he could. He dug his chin into her shoulder. "I didn't want to be a burden."

She made an indignant sound into his jacket, pushing at him, and he let her go. She looked up at him with wide eyes. "Bucky." God, that was the first time someone that mattered had called him Bucky in so long. It was always James. Sergeant, then Captain, James B. Barnes. Sometimes Peggy called him Bucky, sometimes he was Jamie, _but it just wasn't the same when it wasn't coming out of Steve's mouth._ "You'd never be a burden. Ever."

He smiled, more politely than anything. He knew it didn't reach his eyes. "You should've seen me when I got out. That'd change your mind for sure."

She chose not to poke the bear. She grabbed his hand and pulled him along. "Come on, before everyone gets antsy and rushes you."

He looked over his shoulder at Peggy, who had come up behind him and was waiting patiently. She smiled brightly as she moved to follow, her lips a plum purple compared to the normal red or pink.

Next thing he knew, his little brother was throwing himself into his arms. Dominic wasn't very tall, compared to someone six foot, but he wasn't thin - he was mean and lean, lined with wear and tear.

"Goddamn, what happened to you?" He pushed him away, grabbing onto his neck to get a look at him. He had a jawline! "You were seven, you were supposed to stay seven!"

"You didn't stay seven," he shot back, lamely. His voice sounded like grating gravel, deep and masculine. "You turned twenty five and went to war."

Bucky's eyes widened in challenge. "Oh, that's how it is? Go fuck yourself. Ma!" He pushed his brother away and reached toward his mother, who sniffled and immediately stepped forward to return the hug. Whenever he hugged his mother, he felt like a kid again. She never changed - the way she talked, the way she smelled, the way she cooked his favorite meals. She was his hero, alongside Sarah Rogers and Rita Malka (changed, Michaels).

Into his shoulder, she whispered, "We've read what happened to you. Classified and vague, but we know."

He put his hand in her hair, her dark blond hair, as he straightened. He tucked the stray strands behind her ears, back under the edges of her black knit hat. "You really have no idea." He cocked his head to the side. "But that's for another day."

"Something was wrong. I knew it was, baby -"

He squeezed her shoulders. "Ma, you're getting worked up. If you cry, I'll cry, then we'll all just be crying and no one wants that."

She let out a broken laugh, folding her face into her hands. She stepped out of the way, and Eleanor - in cuffed jeans, a loose blouse, and a cotton coat, not too unlike Rebecca - replaced the open space in his arms. He pressed a hard kiss to her temple and whispered, "Hey, blondie."

"I missed you," she murmured in his ear. "You were the only one who knew, I went through so much - and you went through hell. I -"

He took a deep breath. "What I just told Ma. If you're gonna cry, get out of my face. Not now. Later."

She laughed, weakly, and reached up to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him even closer. She kissed his cheek, a stray tear marking his skin, and Bucky squeezed her torso before moving to his father.

There was so much he could have said, could have done. He could have punched George Barnes in the face, could have screamed at him - but he didn't. He just wrapped him in a silent, loose hug.

His father cleared his throat. "You're living."

Bucky pulled away and clapped his shoulder, nodding his head. "Yeah. I'm living." He inhaled sharply, turning around and reaching toward Peggy. She took his hand, and he pulled her through the group. "Guys. This is Margaret Carter. Peggy."

The name seemed familiar to them, and Ellie lit up. "You were the one to take Steve to Project Rebirth!" she exclaimed, before her eyes widened and she slapped her hands over her mouth.

Winifred immediately jumped in, pressing her hand to her daughter's back. "We got to see him when he was here for the New York show. He stepped out early and got dinner with us." She then smiled, apologetically. "He told us a little more than he should have."

"Let's not live in the past, girls. He's dead, let it go," George grumbled.

Bucky didn't look over his shoulder. He just let his body tense, and squeezed Peggy's hand - she had obviously heard and visibly bristled, but put on a polite smile. "Yes, that's me. You're Ellie, I'm assuming."

She giggled, then cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You're a huge idol of mine. I'm sorry."

Bucky laughed, and some of the anger and bitter cold bled from him. He turned to Peggy. "I should've known."

"Why are you here, Agent?" George interrupted the awkward bliss with his rough voice. "Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"First of all, it's Director," Peggy said, voice flat and powerful. "Second," her tone changed, and the corner of her mouth quirked as she looked up at him. "James, would you like to tell your family?"

He shrugged, playing fun. "Might as well." He snaked his arm around her waist and pulled her flush to his side. "We're engaged."

**| 1955 |**

His day started when he was shaken awake - Bucky was absolutely horrified when he realized he had lashed out at Peggy, and was beyond thankful she had caught his wrist. She then stepped out of the room, leaving Bucky alone with his thoughts.

The exact date was unknown, but Bucky - Bucky's body knew. He went into disarray when the time came. His system glitched for days. He couldn't stop shivering, the shock that never quite left his soul would live vibrantly, and his mind wouldn't go still.

January was hell. Colder than death. It had been for years, and always would be.

Peggy came back into the room, and Bucky pushed himself up into a slumped sitting position. She curled her right leg underneath her as she sat beside him, a mug of coffee in her hands. She pushed it into his, fingers hovering nearby just in case.

"I'm taking the day off."

Bucky looked up, beginning to shake his head. "No, Pegs, I'm -"

"You're more important than anything they have for me." She cocked her head. "You know that."

Usually, he would kiss her for saying something like that. But not then. Not with everything going through his head. Not while his heart was on his sleeve. Not while he longed for her eyes to be blue -

She gave the day structure. She made him drink warm liquids. She hugged him when he needed to be brought down, she gave him space when he demanded it. His fucked head had the wheel - Z _o_ _la's table - hanging off the side of the car, the handle breaking off inch by inch - he tried. He did. But his fingers only caught tags -_ and sometimes he'd see shit that wasn't there. Steve was beside him, wiry and stick-thin, but smiling all the same. Peggy, a bullet hole between her eyes, a red to rival her lips dripping -

Bucky didn't like his head. He wished he could unscrew his skull at the neck. He'd sleep better, that's for sure.

His sleep wasn't sleep. It was tossing and turning, smothering his face in his pillow and making high pitched whines of grief and frustration that, every year, he claimed he had no idea he could make. Peggy's hand squeezed the small of his back - _she_ _wasn't Steve, he wasn't coming back._

Just like Bucky shouldn't have come back.

He liked to think that there's a smell - a pheromone that was produced when the body was depressed, that soaks into the life around you. The bedroom, it smelled like coffee, sweat, and despair. He was cold, but he'd get these random bouts of heat. He couldn't sleep. His feet were bare, the soles always facing air, because anything touching them made him think of _Zola's laughter as razors traced the lines of his skin -_

The door creaked open. Bucky kept his forehead on his arm, breathing heavily mere inches away from the white bedsheets - _white, like the snow of the_ _mountains_ _, like the sky that loomed above them._ Sweat pooled on his neck, rivulets traced his face, streams slid down his back. He felt smothered by thick air, knowing the room was hot but not feeling it.

"Barnes?"

His head snapped up. Dugan stood at the foot of the bed, looking like he always had, though now his eyes were lined with worry and pity. Past him, Gabe stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Falsworth.

"Peggy called," Jim said, carefully, coming up beside Dugan. "She's real worried."

That just made him feel worse. He was making Peggy's life harder. He never wanted to do that. And now his friends had come to see him, leaving Peggy with a hole in her trusted ranks.

"She went to work," Gabe continued. He put a knee on the side of the bed and launched himself in, landing so his elbow was beside Bucky's head, and they had to look at each other. "What do you need?"

Bucky forced himself to turn over, pushing his weight onto his hip, then shuffling into a sitting position, knees brought up partway to his chest. He stayed silent.

Since Gabe was already on the bed, the rest of his men took that as their cue, hopping up and making themselves comfortable. Dugan sat in front of him, he and Gabe blocking him in, and leaned forward. "Bucky. Talk to us."

He inhaled, shakily, his spine hitching along with his breaths. "I need - to not be cold."

"We can't do much about that. It's practically a sauna in here."

He was sweating. He knew. It was just him. "I...I need sleep. I can't."

"Nightmares?" Jim speculated.

He nodded once, closing his eyes and leaning back onto the stacked white pillows. "Nightmares, voices. The dark." His voice only got quieter as he went on. Tears suddenly filled his eyes, and he blinked them away. "I - I need Steve."

None of them had anything to say to that. Not for what seemed like an eternity of silence.

"Talk." He punched the order out of his chest. "You're all just starin' at me. it's stressing me out."

Dugan shrugged. "Alrighty then. My wife has rugrat number four on the way."

Immediately, the boys began to squabble, and Bucky smiled. He began to relax a fraction. He let himself fall into the aura of warmth his friends carried with them.

Dugan was all smiles and boisterous laughter, obnoxious elbows in the side and wiggling eyebrows, but, above what gave him his humor, he was a good friend and a good man. During basic, he told Bucky about his wife and two kids back home in Connecticut, about his little pasture an the very edge of town where his kids learned the hard way not to name the pigs. Bucky and Dugan met in basic, which happened to be where he got the nickname 'Dum Dum.' They served together in the 107th, having learned that only when they saw each other at the report at the docks. They stuck together, as the war tore them down into skin and bones, as they climbed their ranks, even when Azzano burned the skin off their hands and Bucky was believed to be dead.

He had hobbled out of the burning wreck with Steve at his side. His cagemates - his men, his pals - tackled him when they saw him, Dugan and Juniper leading the charge. But Dugan refused to let go until Steve ordered him away.

Dugan was the only person Bucky had told about the change. Steve tried, but he didn't deserve to hear about that hell, not when he had been the one to find him. Bucky had been terrified after his medical checks back at base, insides scratched raw when Colonel Phillips and Agent Carter tried to question him about his experiences.

He told them he didn't remember a thing. He stretched the truth. His memories were choppy, splices of torture and pain coming through at the very edges of the agony. But Dugan found him, vomiting the ration he had been forced to eat, shaking and sweaty and ungodly pale, and Bucky gripped his arm so hard that he carved red crescent moons into his skin and told him what he could.

The effects only got worse as he got healthier. As he ate, as he moved, as he soaked in what little sun he could, as he smiled at whatever stupid thing Steve and Falsworth and Juniper placed bets over. His eyesight, it was like staring through crystal. He ran faster, he got stronger, and every single night it terrified him.

Dugan was the first of the Howlies he saw after getting out of the ice. The man had raced into the S.H.I.E.L.D office, shouting out demands to see Barnes. Peggy let him into the emergency medical room Bucky was kept in for weeks after the fact, and Bucky got his first tackle hug since he was back stateside. He spent some time with Dugan's family, after S.H.I.E.LD. said he was fit to live his life (even if it was owned by them, but that went unsaid.) He played with the second youngest, a chipper little girl who refused to let anyone brush her ginger hair. He helped out with the farmwork. He was happy there, stayed that way until S.H.I.E.L.D. asked him to come back, and he moved in with Peggy in the city.

"Hey, Buck, come back to us -"

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, jerking away from Dugan and Gabe, pressing himself back into the headboard. "Jesus," he hissed, forcing himself and his racing heart to ease down. "Fuck. I'm sorry."

"You lost some time?" Happy Sam asked, jumping up onto the bed, laying on his hip between Morita and Dugan. Pinkerton was more calm in his approach, easing himself in between Falsworth's crossed legs and Gabe's splayed ones.

His chin fell down to meet his chest. He was an absolute child, a sorry excuse. His friends were in he and Peggy's bed because he couldn't - what couldn't he do? His job? No, he was perfectly capable of that. He wasn't capable of living. He obsessed over little things. He thought about the things he couldn't have each and every, hanging them in front of his face just to torture himself. People babied him, over what he knew to be good reasons. He was a figure of the country - how sad was he?

Very sad. Always sad. Sad even when he smiled, when he laughed - his soul had turned blue, not just from being frozen.

"Peg got us out of work an hour ago," he explained, when Bucky failed to ask when the two newest members when they got to his apartment. He shot an award winning smile. "Here we are. And we brought hooch!"

A hand was heavy on the back of his neck. Dugan, making him look up. When their eyes locked together, he asked, "Would the tribute make you feel better?"

"We have ten crystals," he answered. His voice was raw.

That was all they needed. Everyone was suddenly on the move. Dugan pulled him by the wrist, getting him out of the bed and the depression-filled room.

"They're above the fridge," Bucky pointed out. Falsworth braced his hands on the counter and hopped up, placing his knees on it. He placed the crystal glasses on top of the fridge, closed the cabinet, and handed them down to Jim.

Minutes later; the Howling Commandos of old and new raised their crystal glasses. Dum Dum started, "To Junior."

"To Steve," Bucky concluded. He flushed in pride when his voice did not break.

Dugan finished; "To our brothers in arms, our friends, and most of all, our family. We hope their afterlives are bright and happy. May we live life well enough for them."

"Hear, hear!"

Within seconds, seven glasses sat upturned on the tabletop. Two others were set out for their fallen friends, in a group at the center of the table, untouched.

**| 1956 |**

Bucky couldn't believe it.

Peggy had fallen asleep, soon after his son had. When he started to fuss a few hours later, Bucky swooped in and lifted him off her chest, taking him out to the living room. He dropped down into the corner of the couch, bending his legs to prop the baby up with his thighs.

It just wasn't computing. This was a baby.

 _His_ baby.

He and Steve wouldn't have been able to have this. Not in this time, this life. He hadn't even realized how much he wanted kids, not until Peggy told him she was pregnant. He hadn't been able to stop kissing her, smiling and laughing and just saying _we're having a baby!_

"You know that everything I have is yours, right?" he questioned, dropping his chin down to his chest to try to look in his eyes. As if in reply, the baby fussed, kicking a little. "Yeah, everything I am, all yours. You should feel special, kid."

He wiggled a little on Bucky's chest, letting out a string of sounds that could only be described as _baby._ He could feel his heart melting down into goo.

Bucky scooted down lower on the couch. He propped his feet up on the other side, and laid his head on the arm behind him. "Okay, let's rap - you're going to be _so_ loved. You already are. Hear that? You have a huge family, so much love to go around." He pressed his index-fingertips to his baby's tiny palms, pushing his arms around a little, making him weave in one spot. "Mommy and I are so glad you've come to join us in the world. You have four grandparents. Grandma Amanda and grandpa Harrison -" he shook his head, waving the idea of them off, "- but we don't like them and there's an ocean between us, so don't worry about them. You have my parents, grandma Winnie and grandpa George - we don't care much for George, either - My siblings, uncle Dee, aunt Becca, and aunt Ellie.

"You have other aunts and uncles, too, friends of me and Mom's that will always be there for you. Aunt Angie, and - Jesus, so many uncles, they're blessings and curses - Uncle Jim, Dummy, Gabe, Falsworth, Pinkerton, Sawyer, and Dernier - who lives in France! How exciting is that? And Uncle Steve..." he paused, drawing in a heavy breath, clearing his throat. "He's special, to me and Mom. Uncle Steve isn't with us anymore. _But wherever he is, he loves you so much, just as much as I do. He's so happy I have you._ "

Grant looked at him with his big blue eyes and squeezed Bucky's fingertips, as if in reply. Once again, the fact hit him - _this was his baby. He helped make something beautiful. And to hell if he was going to let him be tarnished by the cruel world._

**| 1959 |**

At the moment, Bucky wasn't working. Part of him felt bad about it, leaving Peggy stranded. The other part of him was happy, like he always was - this was a break. He could spend one-on-one time with his kid. When he was working, running missions overseas, shield on his arm and gun in his hand, he just wanted to be curled up with his family. He loved being able to kiss his son on the forehead before bed every night, falling asleep beside his wife.

Bucky and Grant made a fort, like the ones he would make with Steve and his siblings when they were kids. Like those in his memories, it was full of laughter and smiles. The board to Candy Land sat between them, Grant curled up in a hunched ball while Bucky was stretched out, propped up on his elbow with one foot crossed over the other.

Bucky placed his blue player on the next yellow square, going through the Gumdrop Mountain Pass. Grant huffed lightly, drawing his card. He moved his green player into the loop around the Gumdrop Mountains.

The clock chimed on the hour. He had been keeping count since Peggy left in the morning, and he knew it was seven. She would be coming home soon. Bucky sighed, pushing himself up into a sitting position, head hunched down into his shoulders so he didn't accidentally pull at the overlaying sheet.

"Mom coming home?" Grant asked, looking up from the game board.

"Yeah, just like every other time she's at work. Want something to eat?"

"Cheese?"

He shrugged. Of course he asked for cheese. It was, for some reason, his favorite. "Yeah, we can have cheese. C'mon." He ushered his three year old out of the fort in front of him before following. He jumped up onto his chair in the little dining room, and Bucky smiled at his kid's eagerness as he entered the kitchen.

He took the kettle off the stove, spinning around to fill it in the sink, leaning his elbow against the edge, fist against his cheek.

His jeans had grass stains from when he "fell" in the park, dropping to his knees just before he tackled Grant. He had changed his shirt when they got back, but hadn't been able to change his pants before the kid was on him again, holding onto Candy Land and wanting to play it so badly that part of Bucky really believed his life actually depended on it.

"Dad?"

Tiny fingers tugged at the hem of his cotton shirt. He didn't startle, just leaned back and looked down. "What's up, bud?"

"Can we have crackers, too?"

He chuckled. He turned off the water faucet, releasing the lid. The kettle closed with a metallic clatter. "Yeah, we can have crackers. Give me a second."

Grant let him go. Bucky turned around, setting the kettle on the stove. He twisted the dial around partway, and the little gas flame ignited under the burner plate.

He ruffled his kid's hair. "You know where the cheese is."

His face lit up and he scrambled to the fridge, opening the door and rifling through the bottom drawer. He went to the table with a block of cheddar, and Bucky joined him with crackers and a knife.

He liked days like this. He had nowhere to be, nothing to live up to. He was Bucky, not Captain J.B. Barnes. A father, not a figurehead. He could build forts with his son, eat cheese and crackers barely two hours after he had dinner, and wait for his wife to get home. It was simple. Uneventful, in the grand scheme of things. Don't get him wrong, he liked - no, appreciated - working. It gave him something to do. An efficient outlet for his energy when chasing Grant around at the park wouldn't cut it. He was doing good in the world, and he liked that he was able to do that. He wasn't just not working - he took breaks 'round the calendar. He worked violent missions and led espionage teams alongside Peggy. He spent half of his time in Russia and Germany already, so he had a right to spend the other half in his home.

Something was wrong. He knew it, and so did Peggy and Howard. But it wasn't his job right then, and he didn't really feel bad about it. Not when he was able to fall asleep in a fort he built with one of the few things that truly mattered to him.

He and Grant looked up when the door creaked open - Peggy leaned in. Their son broke into a toothy grin and exclaimed, "Mommy, you're back!"

She sent a bright smile Grant's way. "Hello, sweetie!" She flicked her eyes toward Bucky, who could see the tension in her eyes. "James, stay calm."

He leaned forward, elbows already on the table. "Why do I need to stay calm?"

She didn't answer, just opened the door wide. Howard stepped inside, immediately smiling and striding forward to hug the boy who might as well have been his nephew. Bucky's heart warmed whenever the two would interact (Howard cheered him on no matter what he was doing, offering high fives and proud smiles), but his eyes were elsewhere.

The man - _the scum_ \- who stepped inside after Howard did not get as warm of a welcome.

Bucky scrambled out of his seat, knife tight in his palm as he backed away. "Pegs -"

Zola inclined his ugly head. "Captain."

Peggy vaguely explained, "I have some work here. I need them to look at it."

"I think he knows better than coming near me," he growled. His hand trembled. The blade was unstable, shaking. He couldn't help it. _Something in him always wanted to fail the tests,_ _because_ _he had no idea what would happen if they continued. His skin was already_ _knitting_ _itself back together, his bones reconnected within an_ _hour_ _of the break._ _What else could he do?_

He'd wanted to kill him himself, but he had to put Zola in Phillips' custody. He'd told the Colonel to put a bullet between the pig's eyes as soon as he was useless. But then there was Operation Paperclip, and Bucky had no say. He had to work with the man who tortured him, who killed Steve. He never liked it, and neither did the Howlies. They all threatened him, half the time. First time Bucky saw him after the war ended, he promised to kill him. He always promised, but he couldn't go through with it.

 _Not yet_.

And now he was standing in Bucky's home. The one safe spot. Where his little boy resided.

"Captain Barnes -"

The kettle whistled. They let it.

He snarled, "I should've killed you when I had the chance."

"I'm -"

"Don't talk. Get your shit done, get out of my home." He lowered his arm, though he kept the knife at the ready, and stepped out of the way.

Peggy was the last to walk past him. Howard broke away from Grant and led Zola to the office. Bucky said, under his breath, "You could have called. Given me a warning," amd she froze on the spot.

"I know," she replied, face stony, voice hard. She didn't look at him.

Her stoic demeanor only pushed on his nerves even further. "I can't believe you let him in our home! He _tortured_ me - _he killed Steve!_ "

Peggy's eyes narrowed into a sharp glare, and she whipped her head around to face him. "You think I don't know that?" she asked, voice scraping in her tense throat, seeping disbelief and anger. She didn't let him reply, even if he had wanted to; "He's my colleague. We are working -"

"What's so important that he had to come here, huh?" he hissed.

" _Nothing that concerns you_." She tore herself away from their conflict, crossing through the living room to get to the office, where Howard waited in the doorway. The door slammed shut behind them.

He could tell when he wasn't wanted. In truth, it hurt, being left out. It must've been important. Something nagged deep in his stomach, like there was something missing that he had to know.

He did know that he didn't trust Zola. He would never trust him. He doesn't get why Peggy and Howard do, not after they got the reports and had front-row seats to his shellshock. Operation, Schmoperation - a nazi is a nazi.

He tossed the knife onto the counter as he rounded into the kitchen. He lifted the kettle off the burner, setting it on the plate on the counter. He opened the cupboard above his head, pulling out a mug and a teabag. As he poured the water into the mug, little feet padded across the cheap linoleum.

"Why did you yell at him?" Grant asked. Bucky's hands dropped down to grip the edges of the counter, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments.

"Because -" his racing heart cut him off, and he held onto the counter even tighter. The wood cracked, and he tore himself away from it, hands out of Grant's reach. Breathless, he said, "Go play with something in your room. Don't come out until your mother is looking for you."

"Who is he?" Grant asked, instead of listening.

"A very bad man. He hurt a lot of people, including me and one of your uncles." He waved a hand around. "Go play."

He scrammed, and Bucky was thankful, a momentary wave of relief washing over him. He dropped the teabag into the mug before stumbling out of the kitchen, toward the bedroom. Out of pure clumsiness, maybe some anxiety, he knocked the door into the wall, leaving a dent underneath the knob.

Bucky went to bed, feeling like needles were pushing into his skin. The mug of tea on the counter was left untouched, left for him go find in the middle of the night, when he would move to sleep on the couch.


	3. 1960

**| 1962 |**

"Welcome to our new home, baby." Bucky tilted his shoulders to the side, turning so his baby girl could see the house they now lived in. The kitchen had an island separating it from the living room, which led back to a back porch. There were three bedrooms, the master on one side of the house and the other two on the side of the kitchen.

Bucky loved it. He had missed living in a house, like he had when he was little. He missed residing in something that was his own. Yeah, renting with Steve had been nice, they were ruling their own lives, but their place hadn't truly been _theirs_. And now, living in a house again, something he could call _his_ , something he and Peggy could call _theirs_ and raise their children in, it was nicer than he remembered.

Gabe and Rebecca looked up when they came in. The coffee table was moved to the wall, making room for the three boys to play. Grant sat up when he saw his parents, eyes falling on the bundle nestled in Bucky's arm. At no longer being the center of their cousin's attention, the four year old twins looked up from their playing.

"What's her name?" Rebecca asked, a happy squeak at the edge of her voice.

"Chrysanthemum." Peggy reached out for her, and Bucky gently set her into her arms. She carried her over to the couch, sitting on. She sat down on Rebecca's open side, and they cradled the new born between them.

Gabe and Rebecca had met in '55. At that point, she had been raising her and Will's two kids alone. James and Elizabeth were both beautiful and well-behaved, they'd grown up under a good management from their mother. They had been happy for her when she and Gabe had expressed interest in each other. Bucky and his family - besides his father, for what were supposedly "obvious reasons" - were thrilled. Bucky was proud to stand at Gabe's six at the wedding, as best man. He had kept sending Becca happy smiles over his friend's shoulder, but she only had eyes for the man right in front of her.

"Aw, she's precious." Rebecca traced her finger over Chrysanthemum's soft cheek as Bucky moved around the couch, leaning over the back of it.

"You're quiet," Gabe said, looking up at him.

Bucky turned to him, smile still teasing his lips. "I'm happy." He looked back at Peggy, who was smiling tiredly down at their daughter.

Grant jumped into his aunt's space, climbing up on her lap to get a good look at his sister. "Can I hold her?"

Peggy was silent for a second. "Of course. You just have to be really careful." Rebecca guided out his arms, and Peggy gently set Chrysanthemum in them. Rebecca helped, cradling the baby's head just right.

"Can I call her Chrys?"

Bucky couldn't help the light laugh that bubbled from his throat. He moved farther down the couch, leaning over to press a soft kiss to Grant's temple. "I was thinking the same thing, kiddo. Great minds think alike, huh?" He glanced down at Chrys's closed eyes, at her completely still form. "Do you want to help me put her to bed?"

He nodded eagerly, and Bucky cracked a grin. He leaned down, lifting her back into his arms. Setting her head on his collar, holding her against his chest, he found for the umpteenth time that his heart had missed her. Now that she was close again, he never wanted to let her go. The same thing had happened with Grant, but had probably been even worse. This was his second round. He'd have another lifetime of couch cushion forts and midnight snacks, of life lessons and being wrapped around his kid's little pointer finger.

Bucky pressed a kiss to Chrys's hairless head, six year old Grant keeping step beside him.

He was excited for what the future was going to bring. No one could deny him the privilege of seeing his children rule the world.

**| 1965 |**

Bucky pushed designs into the pile of sugar on the table in front of him. Clouds, smily faces, anything easy that he could organize with his fingers. It kept him busy.

He was meeting with his youngest sister, Ellie, in a casual setting. Simple little diner, that had outside seating in the covered alley. He wore his leather jacket over a band T-shirt (The Byrds), frayed white-washed jeans and his black boots. He had nothing on his person that was meant for saving civilians, not even his S.H.I.E.L.D. badge. He was just a brother meeting up with his sister, being introduced to a woman he had wanted to meet for years on end.

"Never thought I'd be able to meet you," an amused, though awe-struck, voice said from behind him. It was followed by his sister's muted laugh.

Before he could turn, the two women came around from behind him. Only one of them he hadn't met - she had long black ringlets that framed her square face, pale skin, and bright blue eyes. Beside her, Ellie grinned at him, opening her arms for a hug. Bucky chuckled, getting up and wrapping his arms around her and setting his chin on her shoulder.

She pulled away after a good few moments. "You look tired, man. Get some sleep."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. has me going nonstop. If I'm not, then I'm with the kids. Russia's being...insanely tense." He shook his head. "We're not talking about work. I've been waiting for this for years!" He turned to the woman that was undoubtedly Jessie, smiling at her as he spread his hands. "It's finally happening!"

"Yes, it is!" she exclaimed back, laughter causing her voice to shake. "I can call you Bucky, right?"

"Of course, you can. That's a dumb question. You're family." Ellie sat down, and grabbed Jessie's wrist and pulled her into the third seat at the table. Bucky dropped back down, leaning forward. "As long as we don't yell or anything, we can't be heard. And no one's going to want to eat out here."

He decided long ago that he was going to trust Ellie, because she trusted him. They were more similar than they had known. After he had moved out, he took her out for a day, brought her back to he and Steve's place. She found Steve's normally hidden sketch book. Opened it, immediately slammed it shut and yelled for her brother. Since she had figured out, they had been closer. When she was in junior high, she told him about her girlfriend Jessie, since she couldn't tell anyone else. She accompanied Steve to the boxing tournaments, rooting for her big brother all through his reign as Counterwight Champion. She'd randomly pester him for information about he and Steve, and he normally answered. That way, they were on even playing field. She wrote him letters during the war, mentioning her boyfriend Jess and his friend Steve, as a way to keep him caught up. Those letters kept him sane, like he had one foot in and out of reality.

"Really? They're missing out. It's not cold at all," Jessie said sarcastically, widening her eyes. She tugged the sleeves of her coat down over her gloved hands.

"I think your sugar froze." Ellie pointed at the pile of sugar between his elbows.

Bucky looked down at it disapprovingly. "Well, it was doing a shit job at entertaining me." He pushed the side of his palm through it, guiding it off the side of the table. As he wiped the sugar off his hand, he tried to figure out what to say. Last time he had to meet one of his siblings' partners, it was William Proctor. Nice guy, Becca went to school with him and fell head-over-heels in love with him. He had been the best high school - and first - boyfriend that anyone could have asked for. Bucky loved him, down to the condolence letter sent to Becca right before Bucky had been drafted.

Ellie beat him to the punch; "How are the kids?"

His heart immediately lit up like a lightbulb. "They're obnoxious and loud, but I love them. I've been going deeper into Grant's self defense and combat offense, and he's doing really good with it."

Then, almost hesitantly, "And Peggy?"

He frowned, looking down at where the sugar had been. He reached into the center console and picked out a couple hot pink packets. He flicked one and tore it open down the middle. Pouring the sugar out, he said - knowing that this was his chance to talk to his sister, would be the only one for who knows how long - "I don't - All I ever wanted to do was make her happy, and I don't know if I can do that anymore." He wiped his free hand over his face, pressing his fingers into his chin. He thought better of it. This wasn't just talking to Ellie. This was meeting the fabled Jessie. "I don't want to talk about it."

"I think you should," Jessie advised, softly. Bucky turned to her, almost surprised. He hadn't expected her to push into something so personal - not that it was a problem. It wasn't. He knew more about her that he should have, for never meeting her, and he was sure that she was in the same boat. "I think it would help, to get it off your chest before you go back home."

He didn't need to think about her words, he knew she was right. He took a deep breath. "This is the first time I'm meeting you, so I don't think I should let myself go. No offense." He smiled. "I wanted to make a good impression."

She scoffed. "Man, I feel like I know you. Lay it down. Start with the little stuff."

He rolled his eyes, looking down at the sugar pile as he tore open another packet. "We fight...a lot." He paused, not sure where to go next. "She won't give me any information, unless she's assigning me a mission. I have to go to Howard for the simple stuff. She's working with _Zola_ , of all people. She knows everything he did, and she's praising him for his work." His hand jerked, the sugar flying across the table. "She's bringing him into our house, around our kids. He's - I - He still calls me his greatest invention!"

Jessie's eyes widened, and she glanced at Ellie before setting her eyes back on him. "Oh. Bucky, I'm so sorry."

"He killed Steve, he tore me apart, and I have to look at him every week. Phillips didn't put a bullet between his eyes, I should've known and done it myself. I want to skin him every time I see him. I want..." Ellie urged him to go on, so he did; "I want to get back at him. Make him hurt as much he made me suffer."

"Completely understandable," Jessie assured, pushing her curly black hair behind her ears underneath her knit hat.

He groaned, sliding down in his chair. "God, I'm so sorry!"

"No. Don't be sorry. You don't deserve to bottle your feelings in." She poked his bicep through his leather jacket. "You deserve to have people who care about you listen to you. And it doesn't sound like Peggy is listening to you."

He attempted, futilely, "We're trying to work it out -" but Ellie interrupted him;

"No, it sounds like _you're_ trying to work it out, and she's walking all over you. Especially in your _very_ important job. You need to get that information from her, and not have to give her space and go to Howard." She scoffed, gesturing wildly around her head. "Jesus, Buck, you have kids! You guys have to communicate!"

"Why did you marry her?" Jessie questioned.

He was shocked by that. Had he heard her right? "Excuse me?"

Slowly, she repeated, "Why did you marry her? Why did you approach her, in the very beginning? I want a good answer, not some bullshit you sell to your mama." As he gawked at her, she asked Ellie, "Hey, sweets, did you feed the cats today?"

"And brushed them," she confirmed with a nod.

"It felt like I had nowhere to go," he started, and the couple came to attention. "I was convinced that my family shouldn't see me in that condition, Peggy didn't have anyone else. She told me we would work it out. We moved in together." He shrugged. "Everything went from there."

"I'm not accepting that answer." She reached forward and confiscated his sugar packets, swiping the new pile off the side of the table. "Real answer, pronto."

He huffed, letting his head fall back. He let them talk quietly to themselves as he thought. For so long, he'd kept that story as his front defense, and no one pushed at him. But Jessie was forcing _him_ to push past it.

"What are we having for dinner later?" Ellie whispered to Jessie, resuming their own conversation while he thought.

"What? I thought this was dinner?"

"Honey," Ellie said, mournfully, "it's barely two o'clock."

"It was easy," he whispered. "It felt like Steve had just died, but to everyone else it had been years. It felt like my family would be disappointed that I wasn't the same. Peggy was comforting. She was..." _warm, and I was constantly cold_. "easy. It was easy. We got comfortable, we knew each other, and we didn't want to start all over, so we just continued."

What the hell was his relationship's foundation? Shell-shock? His trauma? Her undeniable hatred for the world pairing her with a dead man, for the radio producers who held the ridiculous post-war-set, Captain-America-Saves-The-Damsel-In-Distress shows that everyone in America had the possibility of hearing, and she wanted to prove them all wrong? She didn't need anyone, she was a one-woman show, and Bucky knew that. Maybe that was why she stayed with him. He respected her, valued her, and had never, ever acted like it was his job to save her.

Jessie just looked smug, though sad. She handed him a sugar packet, as a reward. "Atta boy. And what do you want, if you could have anything?"

"...Anything?"

"Anything," she confirmed.

He pressed his teeth into his bottom lip for a few moments. "I'd have Steve."

**| 1967 |**

Bucky, Gabe, and Peggy were met at the Dernier's front door by a woman; her eyes were rimmed in red, face tear-stained, but her lips were set into a solid, unwavering line. Bucky recognized her from the old, grainy picture Dernier had tucked into the inside rim of his helmet.

"Others are inside," she said, in a hoarse voice. She stepped out of the way, letting them in.

Gabe replied in French, holding a kind hand out to the woman. Bucky didn't stay behind to see the interaction, instead following Peggy.

He found his boys in a little den, sun filtering through the open windows. Dugan relaxed in a large armchair. Morita and Pinkerton sat at the game table, pushing around the checkers pieces. Falsworth sat in the corner of the room, no chair, just leaning dejectedly into the wall.

"His wife is a sweet woman. She'd be even kinder if I knew what she was saying," Dugan said, humorlessly. He gave a half-assed salute. "Carter."

She smiled at him, but didn't speak. "I'm going to try to talk to her. Woman to woman, I guess. Um...Don't break anything, boys." She kissed Bucky on the cheek before darting back into the hall, off to find Dernier's mystery woman.

Bucky made his way through the room that was not big enough to fit six grown, muscled men, and slid down the wall to sit beside Falsworth. His friend leaned his head on his shoulder, and Bucky let his head fall to the side as well. "Yeah, I'm happy I had the guy who knows French."

"Yeah, yeah. Rub it in, Barnes."

"Who's got your kids?" Falsworth asked him, softly.

"I let my ma live her dreams of frequent grandmother days. Becca's already got a horde on hand." He steered the topic away, to something he had to ask; "How did it happen?"

"Car accident, it seemed. Tires blown out on a secluded street, signs of struggle in the dirt." Dugan huffed. "He was leaving some sort of classified meeting."

"He must've been a target, then?" Bucky was sure of it, if he had been leaving a meeting. The killer would have a clear reason, would know how to plan their attack.

Morita shrugged. "No idea. There's no evidence that the killer even exists, besides the last of the boot prints."

"The police have given up because of it. Said it was just a car accident, self-inflicted. Despite the bullet holes in the tires," Dugan exclaimed.

Bucky pressed his mouth into a thin line. At the silence, Dugan turned to another new topic, asking, "How's the checkers?"

"Boring," Morita grunted as Pinkterton hummed absently. Gabe, who draped himself over the back of Pinky's chair at coming into the room, huffed.

"Are there cards in the drawer?" Bucky wondered.

Pinkerton reached over, pulling the drawer underneath the tabletop out. He pulled a deck of cards out of it, and nudged it shut before tossing it to Bucky.

He started to open the deck. "Sit around, boys. I'll show you a good time." He tossed the case into Falsworth's lap, and obstructed his state of being a pillow by leaning forward. He began to shuffle the cards, and waited until the other four remaining were on the floor to say, "The game's Bridge. AKA, Rogers Yells A Lot Because Barnes Wins A Lot."

They played for hours, reminiscing. At some point, Howard and Peggy joined them, each of them carrying small glasses, a bottle of bourbon tucked under Howard's arm. When it was getting late, they decided to give the cards a break and hand out the glasses as Falsworth filled them.

Finally, they all wearily raised their glasses above their heads. Dugan started, "To Steve."

Morita; "Junior."

Falsworth; "Sam."

Bucky; "And Dernier." He paused, taking a steadying breath. "Brothers in arms. Men we are all proud to call family."

"May they rot in specialized hells!" Dugan's final comment got weak laughter from the other Howlies. Then they drank. Four filled glasses were left to sit in the center of their messy circle on the floor, surrounded by the abandoned cards.

**| 1968 |**

Bucky ran. It was the only thing he knew to do. It was the only thing he could. His shoulder and thigh had bullets stuck in them, the stomach of his suit had been sliced open by a sharp knife, and he had a shadow on his heels.

He was leading the operative away from the base. That would be his only chance of survival. Weave through the trees, get him to waste his bullets, then attack. The shield on his back protected him, leaving him better off than he would have been without it. He didn't like that the backs of his legs were exposed, but he had to make do.

The operative, he was fast. But Bucky was faster.

He was strong. Bucky wasn't worse or better. They were equal.

He had a metal arm. His weaponized hand had caught the shield like it was nothing, and had lobbed it back at him with so much force that Bucky slipped backwards in the snow bank.

His team was dead - he had put up a fit when he was told he couldn't get his Howlies (besides Pinkerton), but now that he thought back on it, he was glad. They were all taken out by bullets or thrown knives. The image of Pinky's eyes crossing as he looked at the knife between them was seared into his head. All ten, taken out in less than a minute.

He was getting tired. His thigh was screaming at him to stop moving, to drop down in the snow and bleed out like an animal shot on a hunt. The cold had seeped deep into his bones, into his mind. His muscles were spasming, he was going to collapse soon -

There were no more bullets. This was his chance.

He doubled back around, meeting the strange operative in the middle. He held one leather rung of his shield and swung it like a bat, hitting the enhanced man in the face. He quickly slid his arm through the two rungs, twisting back around and using the shield to block the metal fist that had been coming at him. Over the edge of his shield, Bucky threw a punch, then twisted his arm and shoved the rim of the shield into the underside of the operative's chin. His head snapped back, his neck cracking loudly.

But it was only a crack. May have resulted in a concussion, but that was a fruitless hope and he knew it.

Bucky jerked back. The tip of the blade tore the collar of his navy blue suit. They danced around each other, and Bucky started to figure out their routine; offence, get more hits in while the other reeled, defend, be the one getting hit repeatedly, repeat. They fought on even ground, statistically. Bucky twisted the enhanced to the ground, so he was laying on his side, but he just jumped back up.

He always got back up.

Their metal attachments were the only things keeping them alive. Bucky jammed the edge of his shield into the plating of the arm - after being around Howard Stark for long enough, he knew that prosthesis was decades past their modern technology, it was a marvel - pulled a knife from the offense's leg, and stabbed deep into his stomach. A choked sound came from behind the solid mask. To Bucky, it was a sign that this man was still an ounce human.

He shoved Bucky back. He lost his hold on the knife, slipping in the snow. He tried to find his footing, but his injured leg buckled beneath him. The operative caught him by the throat, lifting him up just to shove him back down again, back to the frozen ground beneath them.

The operative straightened. Bucky stayed down. He used the metal arm to pull the knife from his stomach. He glared down at him, and dropped the blade into the white patch beside Bucky's head.

He walked away. Left him for dead.

Bucky waited. He waited for an eternity. Finally, he lurched up onto one elbow. His shaking hand found his radio, and he brought it to his blue, numb lips; "Captain J.B. Barnes. I repeat, this is Captain James Buchannan Barnes. Left for dead. My entire team was eliminated. There is an unknown enhanced operative on the field. Coordinates unknown, North of target base. Left unbreeched. Only way to eliminate the base is range ballistics. _Do not engage_."

"Your injuries, Cap?" Howard's voice. He could trust him.

"Series of lacerations and stab wounds. Bullets in left shoulder, right thigh. Bruises and welts. Possible concussion. I'm stuck in the snow."

"We're on our way."

**| 1969 |**

Something that was in his life was changing. Bucky was absolutely astonished by what he read in the paper, so much that he left the table to put on his boots and what would pass as a uniform; otherwise known as the pants from his Captain getup, a rock shirt, and his leather jacket.

When he left the bedroom, after deciding not to bring the shield - he was doing this not only for others, but for _himself_ , for Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, so he was going as _himself_ \- Peggy was waiting with a hand on her hip, Grant and Chrys sitting in front of her at the bar/kitchen counter that acted as a dining table most days.

"Where on Earth do you think you're going, out of the blue?"

"Got a riot to get to," he explained, raking a hand through his mussed hair. He then struck a somewhat obscene pose. "Do I look good enough to get punched by a police officer?"

She didn't even have it in her to roll her eyes at him. "James, what's going on?"

He sighed, striding toward her and grabbing the paper from Grant's hands. He kissed his son on the temple - earning a groan from the young teen - before flipping back to the page he had read from, and turning it toward Peggy. "Stonewall Inn. 'The fags are fighting back.' They refused to be arrested. It's been going on for hours, it's not stopping."

She snatched the paper from his hands. "James. You cannot go to this!" She looked up at him with eyes wide from utter disbelief.

"And the race riots weren't huge? Shaking hands with Dr. King?" He shook his head, pressing his palms against the counter as he leaned toward his wife.

She set the paper down, and Grant quickly leaned across to pull it closer to him, picking it up and reading the article. "James, if you're seen - and you will be - everyone in the world will think you're one of them."

His blood ran cold. He couldn't help it. Steve was on his mind, the world was on his mind - shit that had to do with him was changing. He had been waiting for this since he was in junior high and had wanted to take Steve in by the waist and kiss his little smirk until neither of them could breathe. He demanded, voice bare, "Would that be so bad?"

She was silent, looking as if she had been struck. The flat was still, until Chrys asked in her quiet munchkin voice, "What's going on?"

"Dad wants to go to a big fight," Grant answered, leaning toward his little sister's booster seat. "Mom doesn't want him to." He then turned toward Bucky. "You should go."

"Grant Michael Barnes!" Peggy exclaimed, while Bucky threw his hands up in victory.

He leaned back in his seat, eyes going wide. "I'm sorry, Mom, but he should. He was at the Harlem riot, and Captain America being there turned some people over. He could really help them down there."

"See?" Bucky gestured at his son, training his eyes on Peggy. "I should go. And I'm going. I'll be back - I don't know when." He leaned across the counter until his feet were a few inches off the floor, and kissed Peggy on the cheek. "Love ya." He pushed himself away, darting to the door.

< | >

Christopher Street was a madhouse. There was fighting and there was dancing, there was shouting and there was singing - it was a dream come true. And to hell if Bucky wasn't going to take part in it.

He jumped up onto the back of a parked car, marching up on the top. Someone yelled, "It's Captain America!"

Then a woman's scream pierced the air above the chaos.

And Bucky? Well, he leaped into the fray. He pulled a cop off a man in extravagant makeup, wrenched the stick out of his hands, and used the power against him. He wacked at his arms, the weak spots in his TAC vest, his legs, anywhere he could reach and hurt.

For Ellie. For Jessie. For Steve. For Bucky. For the men and women killed in the streets and back alleys. This was their time for revenge, for vengeance. They were raising their voices because _they deserved to,_ after everything that had been done to them. For being forced into hiding, into little ruins of people who had to deny themselves of who they were.

He was fighting tooth and nail. He and a woman in a man's jacket had kicked an officer down, and then pushed him up against a building and left him there. He was grabbed by the arm, maneuvered down onto the asphalt of the street, knee in his back. A man with red hair had tackled the cop off his back, and then helped him up.

He was dancing. A man with black hair had grabbed his bloody hand and pulled him away from the even bloodier officer. Bucky danced with a man for the first time since before the war, since the time Steve had been a skinny little thing who had no balance, much less coordination. The man he was dancing with was much more skilled, and it reminded him of the dances he had with ol' Rickie, a Queen at the fairy bar he and Steve had occasionally gone to (Rickie knew his swing, and he was a great partner to lead). He was part of a kick line, sandwiched in between two Queens. He was dancing on his own, singing along to the songs in the air around him. No music, no background - just words. The words were the only thing needed.

Bucky was out until the next morning. People were coming in and out, on both sides alike. He started the trudge home before the sun came up, tired and sore (he was barely ever sore. He took it as a blessing, he felt the effort he had put in), jacket tied around his waist by the sleeves.

Grant jumped up from the couch when he came in. His eyes widened when he saw the already healing damage, because he could imagine what it had been. Bucky closed the door with a soft click, and wiped a hand over his face, over the bruise from a baton that acted as contour for his cheek. "Where's your mom?"

"She's at work. She went in early," he explained. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Brew coffee?" It came out as a question, because he didn't want to force his kid to do anything. But Grant was in the kitchen in less than a second, and Bucky slowly, stiffly, walked over to a stool and sat down, back facing the living room. He groaned in relief, slumping forward against the counter.

Once the pot was brewing, Grant tossed the paper at him. Bucky sighed, knowing something was up. He looked and saw his face - a gleeful smile, eyes set in determination, as he beat a police officer with his own weapon - was on the front page. He groaned, dropping his face into his hands. But he wasn't surprised.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" Grant asked, hushed, and Bucky looked up so fast he swore he got whiplash.

"What did you just say?" he questioned, voice raw from screaming and singing and chanting.

His son licked his bottom lip before saying again, this time without question, completely certain, "You're one of them."

Bucky was silent. He never lied to his kids. It was something he never liked the idea doing, whether it was to sugarcoat or hide, and he decided a long time ago that he wouldn't do it. If he wanted them to be honest with him, he was going to be honest with them.

He huffed, deflating. "I don't...Your mother is the only woman I've ever been in love with." _And some days_ _, he's_ _not so sure of that._ "Before her, I forced it. Kept up the rouse. Most of the time I would take two girls out, so they could have a date and not worry about anything."

Grant nodded. "That was real nice of you."

"They appreciated it." He paused, fiddling with his fingers. "Might've been a bad idea to go."

"No, I think it was good. You've been waiting for that for a while. Lot of people have." He pushed himself away from the other side of the counter, farther into the kitchen, to deal with the coffee pot. It was more than halfway full. He pulled a mug from the open shelves, poured the drink in, put the pot back in the cradle, and brought it back to Bucky; who stared down at the black liquid.

Finally, he didn't look up as he said, deathly quiet; "Don't tell your mother."

"Just me and you, Dad."

The room devolved into silence. Bucky sipped at his pure coffee, not having the motivation to make it into the sugar and cream deathtrap it usually was.

He finally asked, "How mad is she?"

"Smoke out of her ears. Talking about how your PR team is going to be livid, and take it out on the two of you. Are you guys going to be okay?"

"Eventually."

After the count of ten, he asked, hesitantly, "Were you ever with a man? Before Mom?"

Bucky sighed. He knew this was coming, at some point. He wasn't going to lie. Coffee cup against his bottom lip, he murmured, "A long time ago."

"What was he like?"

"He was a dumbass," he said, shortly, before taking another sip of his bitter coffee, leaving it at that.

"...Do you miss him?"

More sure than anything else; "With everything I have in me."


	4. 1970

**| 1971 |**

"Sit down," Peggy urged him. Her voice was level, but her smile was plaster. It cracked around the very edges.

He carefully dropped down into one corner of the couch. Peggy sat down on the other side, her pantsuit trousers pulling tight around her knees when she pulled her legs up onto the cushion between them.

He wasn't sure what was wrong. He hadn't done anything - pushed her buttons the wrong way, bothered her for information he needed that she didn't want to give him. They hadn't fought too overly much, like they had been for what seemed like such a long time. Last week, they actually shared the bed for a whole night, had touched without the other person moving away. It was a small thing to feel proud of but that was how Bucky felt. They'd kissed in ways they hadn't since Chrys was a toddler, and they were able to sneak good moments in the middle of the night - Maybe she was finally telling him something? It was her, not him.

She tucked her straight hair behind her ears, setting her black-lined eyes on his. She finally said, softly, "I don't know how to tell you this."

His eyes narrowed, instinctively. He didn't like the tone she was using. It set his nerves on edge, made him wait for the other boot to drop.

She fingered at a loose button on her jacket. "I'm..." She huffed, doubling over and pressing her palms against her cheeks. She said, eyes averted and voice muffled, "I'm pregnant."

So many emotions surged up inside of him; happiness, frustration, dread. He wasn't sure what he should be feeling. He wasn't sure how to feel about anything regarding he and Peggy anymore.

"I'm not too sure if I want it," she added, voice level, before he could say anything.

His blood ran cold. He stuttered, completely confused and shocked, "...Wha-what?"

She glared at him. "You have no say in what I do with my body. You know that." Her voice was as hard as a rock - she wasn't moving.

"Peg, it's illegal -"

"There are pills -"

He scoffed, getting up from the couch. He crossed to the other side of the coffe table, muttering, "Oh, my god... _Oh, my god_. Jesus -" He spun around, facing her. "You can't be serious."

"I am. James, I'm in my fifties -"

"It's your body, but what you're talking about it ours!" He threw a hand out to the side, gesturing at nothing. "At least ask for my opinion -"

"You've made your opinion very clear -"

"But you didn't ask for it, and that's something you should have done!"

"It's my body! You're not the one who has to be pregnant for nine months - the one to give birth! I didn't want to have to do that again." She fitted her fingers against her scalp, tugging at her dark hair. Silver was threaded through it, shiny wires blinking when the light hit them right.

"I get it. I do. I promise, I do," he assured, forcing his voice to soften. "If you wanted to get rid of it, you shouldn't have told me about it."

She huffed. Miserably, she slapped her palms against her thighs and demanded, "What else was I supposed to do? Nothing makes you happy anymore -"

That made another bout of anger explode in his chest. "'Nothing makes me happy'?" He spun on his heels, beginning his mission to wear a track into their floor. He had to move, had to get the energy out before he did something he would never be able to forgive himself for. "You're the one who blocked me out! I spent every day trying to make an effort - then I realized, nothing I do is going to be good enough for you, so I gave up." He threaded his fingers through his hair, ruffling the rogue curls. "I sleep on the couch every night because you want your space, or I crash at Ellie's because it's so goddamn uncomfortable -!"

"I never asked you to do that -!"

"You kicked me out of the bed half the time, so I think I just saved you the worry!"

"If you would just -!"

" _I'm_ _not Steve!_ " he shouted over her. Tears clouded his eyes. He was feeling too much, his whole body was vibrating with energy that he needed to work off. He shrugged his shoulders, spread his arms, and let them fall back to his sides. "He's always been better than me, he always will. You wanted Steve, I know that. I-I-I don't know why you married me, of all the people you could have had. He - God, Steve was amazing. You deserved him. You didn't deserve a shock-riddled, sorry excuse for Captain America. You deserved the real deal.. _._ _But you didn't get the real deal, so stop taking it out on me!_ " He inhaled sharply. "I know I'm not good enough. I'm reminded of that every time I get in the bed only to have to get out again, every time Chrys shakes me awake in the morning. Just...Stop taking it out on me."

Peggy was silent, staring up at him with wide eyes.

"You wanna know what I promised myself, when I met your parents?" He didn't wait for her to reply; "I vowed that I would do whatever it takes to make you happy. To make you smile like you did when you kissed me on the street. But I just don't know what to do anymore..." He shook his head, and reached up to grind the heel of his hands into his eyes for a few moments. "You're just...You're not the Peggy Carter I fell in love with. And I'm not the Bucky you knew, not anymore." He shrugged. "Do what you want. I don't care."

Tears immediately welled in her eyes. He hoped that she had been holding them back this whole time. "No, Jamie. You do care."

"Of course I do. How couldn't I? What inside of you - I'm part of that. You're killing part of me. That's not just your baby, it's mine, too. It's Grant and Chrys's little brother or sister. That baby is something to so many people in our lives."

She jumped up, and came close. He started to shake his head, but she placed her hands on his hips and leaned in close to his chest, staring up at him with wide, tearful eyes. "I won't do anything."

A disgusted itch fell in his gut. "No, don't go through with it just because I want it -"

She pulled him closer, until their bodies were flush. "No, no, I promise I'm not doing it for you."

"I just want whatever makes you happy."

She craned her neck up, fitting their lips together in a horribly awkward kiss. He couldn't believe that at one point they had done this while smiling, laughing into each other's mouths, swallowing down the little sounds that rose from their throats.

It seemed like all of that happiness happened so long ago - not just seemed. It was long ago.

Bucky pulled back, ducking out of reach. He pointed toward the door, pushing his brain to find the words. "Um. I have to go." His voice broke at the end.

"Ja -"

"No, Peg, I have to go." He grabbed his keys off the counter, darting to the front door.

It didn't take him too much time to get to Ellie and Jessie's apartment. He let himself in through the main building door, jogging up the flights of stairs. He knocked on their door, leaning against the little half foot of wall that bent and connected to the main hallway.

Ellie threw open the door. Her hair was mussed, her part off by a couple inches. Her lips were red and kiss-swollen.

He smirked. Jokingly, he whisper-ecclaimed, faux-scandalized, "Eleanor Barnes! You are almost fifty years old, it is the middle of the day -"

She widened her eyes even more and pointed an accusing finger at him. "Don't you dare finish that sentence!"

He laughed. "I'm kidding. I'm very happy you're getting lucky. One of us has to."

She gaped at him, pressing a hand against the side of her head. "Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."

"That's right, get 'em all in there." He pushed past her, and was immediately met by one of the cats striding between his boots. He bent down, scratching Jade between the ears. "Aw, hey there, sweetums. Where's your partner in crime?"

"What are you doing here?" Ellie groaned, reluctantly closing the door behind her. She leaned against it, the crown of her head pressed to it.

"I need a drink," he raised his voice, so Jessie could hear him quickly. "Care to join me? My treat."

Jessie's head popped out from the crack in the back bedroom door. Her hair was pulled back into a messy knot on the nape of her neck. "We'll meet you downstairs."

Ellie spluttered, but Jessie glared at her and she quieted down.

"See you then, ladies." He shoved his little sister out of the way and opened the door. He put his hand on the outside knob, winked over his shoulder, and shut the door behind him.

**| 1972 |**

"You want to _what_?" Bucky exclaimed into his radio. His sudden outburst gathered the attention of his men. "No! No. I veto - never gonna happen."

"But Dad, it would be such a good opportunity!" Grant insisted, his voice embedded with the grain of Stark's new radio model.

"I am literally about to walk into a deathtrap, and you're telling me you want to do it, too! How else am I going to react, kid?"

"You're being a hypocrite."

His gloved hand fell on his hip. "I know, and I have reason. Grant, I don't want you working for S.H.I.E.L.D.. Over my dead body -"

"We're closing in on dropoff!" the pilot said over the intercom.

He wrapped up his conversation; "We'll talk more once I'm home. I promise. I have to go."

"Dad -" he started, voice dejected.

"I shot it down because I care. You know I do. I swear, we'll talk about it more. I have to go now, okay?"

"Good luck. You better come back."

He scoffed. "Yeah. I will. You'll see. Over." He cut the feed, tucking the radio into his utility belt. He addressed his men in a stern voice that he saved for nosy politicians, anyone who was in his way, and his children when they got in trouble; "There is a man here, under the name of the Winter Soldier. He is enhanced, not too unlike myself. He has a metal arm, and will kill you within seconds of being spotted. Do not engage. Let me deal with him. Understand?"

A chorus of responses came back to his ears. He was fine with them, so he didn't dive deeper. With a sudden burst of resolve, he ordered, "Play your cards right. Last time I saw him, I was the only one that lived, and I barely scraped by." He added, in a cruelly light manner, "I don't want to fill all that paperwork out again." A small, poorly concealed laugh came from behind him, and he smiled over his shoulder as he tightened the rungs of the shield around his right forearm. "You all know your teams and places. Stick to them, follow your guts." He picked up his blue helmet, little white wings emblazoned on the sides, and put it on over his slicked-back hair. "Good luck."

They landed in a small field, and the agents grouped at the edge of the treeline. Bucky orchestrated their formation, sending Team Star left, Team Moon right. Team Zodiac went forward, Captain America in the lead. Fifteen men each, rivaling the lone ten he had gone in with last time.

But in the snow, he was his weakest. What if everyone died again, under his lead? It would be his fault, always would be.

They made it further than he had last time. A choked shout came from the back of the group, and Bucky whirled around as the members of Team Zodiac scattered.

The Winter Soldier dropped an agent's limp body into the snow, neck twisted. The masked weapon rolled his shoulders, making the metal one whir loudly. In the low light, he could see the panels recallibrating; the tech was overly impressive.

"We're doing this again, huh?" he stalled.

The Winter Soldier cocked his head. Bucky found it interesting, but he didn't think about it too hard before he was charging the enemy operative. He slammed the center of the shield into his stomach, hard enough to send him flying into a frozen tree trunk.

They met in the middle; Bucky slamming his fist into the Soldier's temple, his uncovered fingers touching coarse, but clean, hair. The Soldier jerked at the hit to the head, backing away only to regroup and come back in, slamming his foot into Bucky's hip. He felt his femur dislocate just slightly, enough for the bones to grind and pain flare up his torso and down to his toes.

Distracted, the Soldier slammed his metal hand into Bucky's chest, knocking him back into the snow. He landed on his dislocated hip, and yelled as the bone snapped back into place. He needed to get back up - but the Soldier was on top of him, punching him with everything he had in him.

Bucky got a knee between them, and pushed up into his stomach. He didn't budge. Bucky put more force behind it, fitting the sole of his boot on the Soldier's thigh. He pushed, punched him straight in the throat, and he was free to roll away.

He heard the scrape of metal against leather - he only got his shield in front of him just before the bullets came at him. He quickly rolled to the side, using his one strong leg to spring up behind the wide tree. The Soldier was coming around from the right - Bucky opened a pocket on his belt, pulling out the garrote. He wrapped it around his knuckles. He spun, used a foot against the tree to boost him up, and landed on his shoulders. He tucked his heels underneath his arms after kicking the gun out of his hand. He unraveled the garrote, pulled it tight against his throat as he leaned back.

A strangled scream came out from behind the mask. Bucky startled slightly, though he knew what a wire would do - the sound, a scream, was the only human attribute he had seen from the Winter Soldier. He _could_ feel pain. He could react to it, as long it was extreme.

Bucky knew that the man underneath him was a killer. But that didn't stop him from freezing, as the sound set in; He'd heard it before. Its position in his life gnawed on the back of his mind, because he couldn't place it.

He had to get the goggles and mask off. That would be the only thing he could do.

Sensing that he had froze, the Soldier jerked to the side, throwing Bucky off. He rolled through the snow, pushing himself to his knees and twisting around. He bounced back up, jumping as he came close to slam both of his knees into his chest. He landed in a squat, and rammed the rim of his shield into the side joint of his right knee. He rolled out of reach as the Soldier crumbled - quickly turning his body so his stomach wasn't exposed to Bucky.

He jerked up into a crouch, gun up and pointed at him. Bucky ducked his head and legs behind his shield. There was a pause in the gunfire, so he lobbed it - the Soldier caught the edge in his metal palm, fingers clamping around it.

Then he dropped it, recoiling.

The reaction was intriguing. Bucky ran back at him, jumping up to hit him in the chest again - the Winter Soldier beat him, punching him back down, and twisting him around so his back was pressed to his chest, arms around his throat. Bucky clawed, but they were equals, beyond the strength of the metal arm; he wasn't strong enough to overpower this.

He knew it would bare his throat more, but he had a goal - he threw his head back into the Soldier's facial gear. He clenched his fingers around his forearms, and kicked his legs up. When he was high enough to gain momentum, he marched his back and bore his legs down, bending at the waist once he was close enough to the ground. The Winter Soldier didn't let go, but went up and over his head. Crouching in front of each other, neck twisted awkwardly in his grip, Bucky battered with his elbows, pressing them into the weak spots of a human torso. Liver, diaphragm, collarbone hollow.

When the Soldier let him go to get away from the sharp rapid fire, rolling, Bucky pounced. He braced a knee on the Soldier's sternum, pulling the goggles off and tossing them away.

The Soldier thrashed, and Bucky lost his hold. He was able to grab at the mask before he was out of reach.

He held the hard black casing in his hand.

But the Winter Soldier did not give into his game. He tucked his flesh arm over his face, as if he were sneezing into the crook of his elbow, and kicked Bucky hard enough to propel him into a tree trunk. His back cracked, sickeningly, under the force. He fell onto his stomach, face buried in the snow.

When Bucky managed to get himself on his hand, elbow, and knees, the Winter Soldier was gone.

He grunted, slowly getting to his feet. He hobbled through the snow yuh forest, shaking like a thin limb on a tree during a breeze. When he made it to base, he almost ran back the way he had came;

The blood created warm dips in the harsh white. Surrounded by the limp, cold bodies of his men, was _Hail Hydra_.

< | >

Grant was sitting in a chair beside Peggy's desk, holding his baby sister, Bianca, in his lap while he glared at the man in the white lab coat. Bucky only saw the white; he didn't feel at all guilty when he kicked Zola away from his family, putting all of his anger into it - they were in Camp Leigh, the birthplace of Captain America. It felt right, poetic, for Zola to die in this place - He pressed his forearm to his throat, and the old man didn't put up a fight. Baring his teeth, his words rumbling from the fury deep in his chest; "Tell. Me. Everything."

The scientist was shaking, knowing very well that he was at the mercy of someone who would kill him in a heartbeat.

"James, let him go -"

Not looking away from Zola, he spoke over Peggy, "HYDRA is still active. I'm getting intel. You have your information, I have my information; back off." He pressed harder into Zola's windpipe. "I thought that I did good. Taking Steve's spot, defeating Schmidt. But it was just me going along with the plan, wasn't it? Get frozen, HYDRA prospers while everyone believes the organization died with Schmidt. The bases knew we were coming, both times I was sent. The Winter Soldier killed all four of my teams. He's almost killed me." He shoved Zola again, backing away before he did something he would be forced to regret. "Tell me everything you know."

He sneered up at him, and his heart froze. "There's nothing I can do, _Sergeant Barnes._..I'm sure I will see you again, in the future." His jaw worked, and he sneered as a small cracking sound came from behind his teeth. "Hail HYDRA."

Bucky swore, backing away so he was out of reach of the cyanide that foamed rapidly in Zola's mouth. He collapsed, a quick, painful death - and Bucky expected to be washed over with some sort of relief, the man of his nightmares was finally dead, but he didn't feel it; he felt dread, heavy in his joints.

Grant cheered, awkwardly, "Baby's first suicide?"

Bucky wanted to turn and glare at his son, but he couldn't move. His eyes were on the foam covering Zola's thin lips, slipping over his jaw. "Put us on lockdown. I want all the scientists from Operation Paperclip rounded up. If they die, they're found guilty, and their work will be confiscated," he ordered Director Carter, making no move to touch Zola's body.

Peggy murmured something into the phone she had pulled. She set it back into the cradle, and moments later the electricity went off, red sensor lights illuminating the doorways.

"Stay here," Bucky told Grant.

She added, following him to the doorway, "Lock the door. Don't open it for anybody but us, Howard, and Jarvis. You know who you're safe with, you can certainly hold your own, but you can't be in this."

They closed the door behind them, Peggy inserting her key and locking it. They rushed down the hall, under the alarm sirens and shifting red lights.

Something big was coming. He wasn't sure what it was, and he didn't like that he was, once again, in the dark.

**| 1977 |**

It had hit Bucky in certain ways, over the years - the fact that he remained stuck in time while the world around him aged.

He still looked thirty, while his friends and family had grey feathered into their hair, wrinkles around their mouths and eyes. The world was constantly changing - laws were being passed and repealed, the cycle of presidents was continuing. Their currency was inflating. There was good, jobs for everyone. Mental health was slowly coming into the light - war veterans didn't have shellshock. It was Post Traumatic stress, and it made so much sense to Bucky that his nightmares and triggers and limits fell into place. It explained why, even thirty years later, he could still hear Zola laughing, could feel the blades and the needles and the chemicals moving like fire and ice in his veins -

The world wasn't frozen. The buildings that had been knew when he was a little boy were now considered old. Wars had passed, were being fought. People aged and passed on, peaceful or painful.

Well. Everyone but him. But Bucky had changed, too.

His heart had once been light. He had a smile on his face every day; had a job with an old motherly woman he adored; would go home every day and lay down beside Steve, press a soft kiss to his cheek and cuddle into his thin side. He had a good life, the best he could have while the world around them was in shambles.

But then the war came. Bucky didn't want to fight. He didn't want to kill anyone. He didn't have it in him. He wouldn't be able to deal with the blood on his hands, wouldn't be able to handle the unbearable weight of a weapon in his grasp.

But he did it.

Bucky Barnes may have died in Azzano. It may have been on the train in the Alps, when all he could do was collapse and stare at where the love of his life had once been, not coming back to himself until his eyes landed on Agent Carter. Or maybe it was part of him that hadn't unthawed after being liberated from the ice.

He had been James Barnes for so long - he felt like he was out of touch with himself. With the young man who was trying to find his way through the world, that got interrupted and ruined by the war.

There was nothing he could do. Not when he was stuck in time, his cells regenerating so quickly that he could heal a scrape within a couple of minutes, that he couldn't get drunk, that medication had no effect, that he couldn't even age. He couldn't grow old with his wife. He would have to bury his kids. His friend would pass, he would make new, and they would die, too.

He was stuck in a cycle. The circle of life. The curse of immortality. He was haunted by Steve Rogers, he knew that much.

**| 1978 |**

The door slammed shut, a sound that rivaled the click of Peggy's heels and the heavy breaths Bucky drew in and out of his lungs. She threw her briefcase to the floor and demanded, "Did you know about them?"

Irritation flipped his stomach over further, making him sick and angry. "Yeah, I knew they existed. He did them in front of me, half the time. I just...never knew where he had them." He scoffed, tossing the packet of photocopied sketches on the counter. "And now the whole world can say -"

"Don't." Peggy's voice was harsh, breathless. She stuck a shaking finger in his chest as she passed him, opening and closing her mouth as she worked out something to say. Bucky stayed silent, just for her, leaning his hips against the kitchen counter, the paper behind his back. He had to keep it behind his back. She asked, turned away from him; "All of that - it actually happened?" voice small and - heartbroken. Betrayed. She felt lied to, Bucky knew it, and he felt like how a speck of mud might feel on a millionaire's white shoes; he was less than dirt. There was no denying it. His history was already questionable, and this just tore it apart. His life, his relationships with people, with the world.

Bucky pressed his teeth into the inside of his lip, closing his eyes and letting his chin fall to his chest. His voice came out an uneven rasp; "It was all real."

"You loved him?"

He raised his head, inhaling deeply through the slit between his teeth. His lips were twitching - he wanted to cry. He had so much he should say, but he couldn't. "I love him."

Peggy was silent. She had a right to be. Her husband, the father of her children, was the focal point of years worth of what could - crudely - be put as phallic and pinup sketches.

"I never wanted -" _for you to find out. To lie to you, either._

"Did you ever love me?"

It hit him - he had never figured out how to answer that question, and he never would. He did love her. The waves of her hair, the curves and dips in her body, the birthmark on her left hip and the remaining evidence of a bullet wound below her right breast. He loved her voice, her strength, her passion. He loved everything that made her _her._

But she was right; did he love her, or was he just holding on?

Did he settle? Did _they_ settle?

"I could ask that question right back, you know," he murmured. Maybe escalating the topic, maybe digging his hole miles deeper, maybe making more time for his response.

They hadn't had much of a choice. Everything just fit into place. Bucky had no where to go, Peggy had no one, so they bought an apartment and made it their own. They were some of the last of the people on Earth who knew _Steve Rogers,_ not Captain America. They understood what the serum did, that it gave him what he deserved, but it ruined his life all the same. They sank their nails into their similarities - landmines of scars on otherwise smooth, guilty backs; grief so harsh that one of them had given up the world and the other had strived to make it better - and held on. Because that was all they could do. Bucky couldn't remember living a life without Steve. His family understood, some more than others, but Peggy loved him, too. She got it a little more, but was nowhere near close.

He was what brought them together. But he wasn't what kept them in place.

She sniffled and placed her hands on the back of the couch, digging her painted, glossy nails into the tough fabric. "We have children," she said; maybe to remind him to not tear their world apart, or maybe to remind herself. The comment made Bucky turn on his hip, pressing his pelvis to the edge of the counter, his forearm to the cold surface.

"We do," was all he could muster.

"Will we be able to work this out?"

Now, he knew the dreaded answer to that, had for a while. "I think we both know that we haven't been happy in a long time." He couldn't look at her as he said it, but he knew that she _knew_. Work was all right, work was okay. Pained smiles as they hid the truth. Sought-out reminders of intimacy, as if to assure that this is what they had, this is what they needed, this is what they had to keep up. He felt their unhappiness when they tried to hide it under the bed, under the grey bedsheets they'd conceived their beloved children on; felt it in the tea and coffee that would go cold on the counter, ignored; in the undeniable awkwardness that had always, always been there.

They were forced. Part of them hadn't even realized it.

He added, when she didn't speak, "We can't keep living like this, Pegs."

She inhaled sharply, her breath hitching in her throat - he'd heard it before, but never in such a manner. "No," she agreed. "We can't." She pushed away from the couch, scooped her briefcase up from the floor, already retreating back to the bedroom.

He was now alone. Just like he always felt he was.

With an unsteady hand, he pulled the packet closer. He hadn't seen the drawings in years. The ones in the newspapers were, of course, censored (how couldn't they be?) but Bucky had what was closest to the real copies, and it was nice seeing Steve's art again. To live in memories, time forgotten, to bathe in the longing for a time he could never get back.

He saw himself at four, being pulled away by his mother, smiling with an innocence only a child could perfect. He remembered the day he met Steve like it was yesterday; seven, holding baby Ellie just days after she was born, not able to convince himself to let her go; fourteen, smiling bashfully after he and Steve's first kiss, holding his pillow to his chest; seventeen, stained T-shirt, dead asleep; nineteen, shovel in hand, suit dirty, refilling an unmarked grave; twenty, back arched, hips off the mattress ( _jesus, that night had been long and just_ -); twenty three, sheet wrapped around his thighs, splayed out across the bed and reaching toward Steve ( _he had been drawing, Bucky was bubbly, he just wanted to see what he was doing!_ ); twenty five, in a fresh, pressed military uniform, going off to basic training and then war; twenty six, the looming room in Azzano, strapped to the table; twenty seven, laying against a long in front of a dwindling fire, throat bared.

That wasn't even all of them, but the love was so clear even in the photocopies - the care and adoration Steve put into each feathered line, each value of his shading. It overwhelmed Bucky to the point he had to pull one of the stools over to him, so he could get off his shaking knees. His breaths were coming quicker. His eyes were clouding over with tears - _and hell, he didn't want these in the world_. This was evidence that not just one Captain America, but both, were ruined. The world would hate this, the world was going to tear them apart; and Bucky worked so fucking hard to get everyone to see Steve for what he was, what he and Sarah had seen in him, and now that was ruined. No one would remember him performing one of the most courageous missions of World War II singlehandedly. They'd remember that he saved a man, and they loved each other even though they weren't allowed. The world would remember that Steve was gone, and they could tear him apart metaphorical limb by metaphorical limb, until they got to his heart, his brain, and tore that out too, washing the pavement with his blood like so many other folks before.

He wasn't sure how long he was staring at the photocopies. The drawings, the ones that Steve had carried, that someone in S.H.I.E.L.D. had the audacity to release, spelled out his life. Maybe he'd only been in that spot for a few minutes, maybe a few hours. But then the kids came in.

Chrys, just sixteen years old, had bloody knuckles. In return, Bianca, his little bee, had a black eye. Suddenly, Bucky was back in an old mode he once knew so well - he jumped up from his chair and was on them in an instant, asking everything a parent had to ask; "What happened?" "Are you two okay?" and "What the fuck is my seven year old doing with a black eye?"

Chrys scrubbed her hands under a stream of warm water at the sink. She pointedly ignored the photocopied packet on the counter. "Some of my classmates followed us. They grabbed her, knocked her over." She turned off the faucet and flicked her hair over her shoulder - the dirty blond hair that she and Grant had both gotten from his mother. "The training came in handy, I guess."

Bucky had Bianca sitting up on one of the other counters, away from the closed packet. He had tied her hair away from her face, and was inspecting the black eye before he did anything to it. He let his hand fall from her face and turned his head to Chrys, his face heating up. All of a sudden, he was feeling guilty. His children didn't deserve this. Wherever Grant was, Bucky hoped he wasn't targeted because of something his dumbass father was involved in. "So. You know. I'm guessing."

Chrys was suddenly holding a damp washcloth out to him. When he took it with shaking fingers - he was mortified, he was fucking furious - she whispered, "Yeah, we do."

"You and I can talk in a minute," he promised, and dabbed along the cut that traced Bee's cheek. Her eyes, already red, welled with tears. A pained sound left her throat, high-pitched and heartbreaking. "Oh, I'm sorry, sweetheart."

That was when she grabbed the collar of his shirt - he'd tossed his jacket sometime between getting home and then - and pulled him close, winding her arms tight around his neck and pressing her face into his collar, her tears hot against his skin. She let out a heavy sob, she was shaking, and Bucky could only put his arms around her and do everything he could not to cry along with her. He kissed her temple, smoothed her dark brown hair down, and asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"Can you take me to Mommy?"

Just the mention of her made his stomach drop. "She's in the bedroom. I don't think she wants to see me right now."

"I don't want to let you go." She tightened her hands in his shirt, to emphasize her point.

He sighed, giving in. He didn't have much to go off of, when it came to her. "Okay. Let's go." He scooped her up off the counter, holding her against his chest. He nodded over Bianca's head, mouthing to Chrys, "I'll be back," before he turned away.

He made quick work, taking his little girl to her mother. He eased open the door and poked Bee's head through the crack. When she saw Peggy, she let Bucky go - changed her mind, apparently - and scrambled up onto the bed, where Peggy was still in her dress, had papers from her briefcase spread out around her.

Peggy was exclaiming, "My heart, what happened to you?" as Bucky silently closed the door and turned to walk back out to the living room. When he emerged from the hall into the open floor plan, Chrys was flipping through the uncensored packet, brows pulled in tight. His heart jumped into his throat, he surged forward and slapped his hand over hers, closing the packet.

She leaned forward, staring into his eyes. "You think I care?"

He raised their connected hands and pulled the packet out from under them. "I don't want you looking at them. Not like this. Newspapers, sure, knock yourself out." He held it up and shook it slightly. "But not these."

She sighed. "Dad. I need you to tell me what's going on. The guys are saying one thing, the papers say another - the world is screaming, and you're...you have to say something."

He tossed the packet back onto the counter and sat down at the stool he had been at before. He stayed silent, staring at his knuckles, trying to figure out what to say? What could he say? This was his daughter.

"Do I have to prompt you?" she snapped.

"If it helps you!" he snapped back. He instantly felt bad and dropped his head. "I'm sorry. I...What all do you want to know?"

"Dad. _Everything_."

So he told her everything, that he could. He told her he and Steve's story, the truest version that no one but him could get their hands on - falling in love in the Brooklyn streets, moving in together, how the war pulled them apart in so many places. He told her about Azzano, and god, he _never_ wanted to tell his children about Azzano. He recounted the mission in the Alps, how he wanted to jump after him, how he wanted to tear Zola apart for so many reasons, how he crashed the Valkyrie in the Antarctic - yet another thing he never wanted to have to tell them. He spoke very little of he and Peggy, because they themselves were still working it out and they could get to that later.

"You both loved him," she stated, muffled by the heel of her hand pinning one side of her jaw.

"I loved him first. The world forgets that. This is just reminding them." He tore down the bitter facade he couldn't believe he threw in his daughter's face, and shook his head. "What happened at school?"

She closed her eyes, leaning further into her hand. "My boyfriend called you a cocksucker and shoved the paper under my nose. He broke up with me."

Bucky couldn't really bring himself to feel bad. "Sorry."

She shrugged, pushing herself away from the counter. "He wasn't that good of a boyfriend anyways." She pulled a glass down from a cabinet, and gave him a questioning look. He nodded, and she pulled down a second glass. She turned on the faucet. As she began to fill each one in turn, she went on; "I got Bee from school as fast as I could. None of her classmates really understood it. If they did, it's because of their parents. Some of them had really strong opinions, and kids are cruel -"

He nodded in agreement. "Yeah, they're fucking devils."

She slid a glass toward him, and Bucky pulled it closer. "Some of my classmates had followed us. They surrounded us a couple blocks away. A few of them had their parents with them. Freddie Thompson's dad really hates you."

He winced, more for a comical effect than anything else. "Ooh, blast from the past. Billy Thompson could get hit by a train and I'd throw a party."

She smiled. "Exactly how I feel about Freddie. Great minds, Dad." She held out her glass, and he gave in and toasted them. They both took a sip of their water. A few seconds passed before she asked, quietly, "Does Mom hate you now?"

He sighed. He hadn't wanted to talk about this. He'd avoided it for a reason. "We are...in a fight." He put it gently.

"You've been in a fight since I was born, really." She looked up, guilt suddenly heavy on her face, but she didn't correct herself. Bucky didn't blame her. She was right.

He explained, "We're going to talk more about it later. We're giving each other some space. She's going to go to work, I think I'm going to get out of the line of fire - it's going to be chaos."

"What are you going to tell them?"

He knew who she was talking about. The world. That was his biggest issue. He shrugged. "I doubt they want a fag to be the symbol of the nation."

She winced. "Isn't there a nicer word?"

He gave her a pointed look. "What, you want me to say cocksucker? Cause I can. There's a drawing of it."

"Maybe queer or gay -?"

"Chrys. It doesn't matter what word's used. It just doesn't."

She suddenly crumbled; she sniffled, dropping her head again, pressing her face into her hands. Bucky reached across the counter, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Baby. Look at me." She did, her eyes were red and tearful, and Bucky felt like shit about it. But he had to ask; "Do you hate me?"

That just made her cry harder, and she launched herself across the counter. Their waters had been put just out of the way, thank god, and they just held on to each other. Rocking slightly, tears in both of their eyes. She kept whispering, "I could never hate you," into his shoulder, and Bucky - who hadn't touched religion in so long - thanked every God he knew to thank.

< | >

Bucky had told himself that he wasn't going to dare leaving the house. But in the middle of the night, after hours of tossing and turning on the uncomfortable couch, he got up and drove. He found himself at Ellie's apartment's front door, rifling through his keys. He found the one he needed, after some struggle, and inserted it in the lock.

It wouldn't turn. He decided not to fight it and used the intercom like anybody else, holding down on #13.

After almost thirty seconds, Jessie snapped, "It's barely three! What the hell?"

"It's Bucky." It was the only thing he could say. She would know the rest. She had to know the rest, he couldn't bring himself to explain more than needed.

The lock immediately disengaged, and he opened it in his five-second window. He took the stairs three at a time, bounding up them. He had last seen his sister not too long ago, for Dominic's birthday at their parent's house, in June. He last saw Jessie in '77, a lunch date.

Jessie was waiting in the hall for him, door barely cracked beside her so that the cats wouldn't escape into the hall. She let him in. The second the door was closed, she pulled him in to a tight hug. The second she did, he broke down into the sobs that had been thrashing inside of him since Howard had called him to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s New York HQ. He held her tight in his arms, thankful that there were people - anyone but his daughter - who were there for him. He couldn't ever unleash his inner demons to her. He was honest with her, with all three of his children, but his sobs crossed the line.

"Let it out. It's okay." She stroked her thin fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck. An attempt to soothe him, but it just triggered another strong bout of crying into her shoulder - because he could feel Steve's artist hands, stained with charcoal and pastel oil - She carefully led him out of the entryway, around a corner to the couch. They sat down, and she let him go to wrap one of his mother's old quilts around his trembling shoulders.

"How did it happen?" Ellie's voice asked. She came into the room, wrapped in thick pajamas, and sat down on the arm of the couch behind him. She draped her arms over his shoulders, setting her chin on the crown of his head.

With some difficulty and exception, he forced his voice to remain level. "His stuff has been in storage since he fell. Someone decided to go through it. I doubt they had authorization. Howard has no idea who did it."

"How did the kids take it?" Jessie asked, always worried for their wellbeing. The three of them considered her an aunt, though the kids themselves - besides Grant - didn't know about her.

"Chrys had bloody knuckles, and Bee had a black eye, when they came home yesterday. Chrys and I had a good talk. She has my back. She's not pushing me away. She's angry that she wasn't told, but we can't do much about that." He sniffled. "I have no idea where G is. I hope he's safe." He leaned back into Ellie. "Has anyone in the family said anything?"

"Becca called. She hasn't gotten much yet, but Mom's worried and Dad's livid. Your boys are there for you. They feel so guilty about not knowing, that you've carried this weight on your own the whole time. Gabe especially feels horrible."

"They shouldn't feel bad. We didn't want them knowing. The more people, the more danger. What are the papers saying about him?"

"You don't want to know," she warned.

"I just asked, so I think I do," he snapped.

"There are some people who are fighting for him. Saying the serum fixed what was wrong with him, so if it didn't fix homosexuality then there's nothing wrong with it." She inhaled deeply. "Then, there's the awful parts. The usual. You two shouldn't have been allowed into the army, into your high ranks, that it must've been obvious and people should have seen it. There's so many horrible things out there right now, about the both of you, I hate it so much." She held onto him tighter, all of a sudden, and he didn't protest.

"They don't know him like we do," he whispered. He was always Captain America. Steve Rogers ceased to exist.

"No, they don't. They don't want to."

"I lost Peggy." He let the words hang in the air. Nothing else needed to be said.

"What are you going to do?"

"I think I'm going to lay low. Put down the shield. Because it would be really good for me, not for them." He turned his head, scanning the dark living room. "I want my Bluebell."

Jessie jumped up, and went searching in the back of the two-bedroom apartment. Ellie turned her head, pressing her cheek to his hair.

"When do you want me to go home?"

"Whenever you feel ready to," she whispered. "Get some sleep, Buck. You need it. We'll get you food in the morning, help you figure some things out. We're here for you. A lot of other people are, too. You still have family."

Jessie came back, holding Bluebell in her arms. She eased the cat into Bucky's arms. He held her close, pressing his face into her butterscotch colored fur.

< | >

His father punched him as soon as he opened the front door. (He had checked. Of course he had checked. But he couldn't hide from his father all day, not like he could reporters.)

Chrys and Bee were home. Peggy was at work. As his father punched him again, all he could think was that he didn't want his children to see this.

"Pa, don't -!" Grant shouted, and suddenly Bucky felt even worse. He hadn't seen him through the window. He didn't get to explain to his son. He just wanted to explain. He had more to say to him, out of the three of them.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" George Barnes screamed in his face, and the door slammed shut behind him. He grabbed at Bucky's shirt, pulling him in close. "What?"

"I feel like I'm nineteen and moving out!" he shouted back, nailing his father in the ribs. It was enough to get the old man to let go. But the anger wasn't spent, for either of them.

"I knew it, I always knew it - your mother didn't listen to me, your siblings denied it -!"

He stepped back. "So what? Shouldn't the past stay the past? He's dead. Big deal. You said that."

Chrys shot out of the hallway, and fear sank to Bucky's very core. "Go back to your room."

Her fists were clenched. "No."

George just laughed. He turned to Grant. "Really? James, your kids - they're idiots."

He shoved Grant in the shoulder, and Bucky was suddenly on him - slamming his foot in his old man's stomach and pushing Grant toward Chrys. He easily got him to the ground, knee between his shoulders. "You're not touching them. Not like you did us." He slapped the back of his head. "What good did you think coming here would do? You really thought you could get the upper hand? I'm not scared of you - I've seen hell and you weren't there; _y_ _ou are nothing!_ "

"If I'm nothing, then what are you?" he growled.

Bucky'd thought about it before. Long nights where he didn't - couldn't - sleep, he'd placed people in his life on a scale. He knew what he was, compared to people like his father, but he had no idea what he could be called. He knew there was darkness in him. The serum had amplified it, just like it had amplified the utter goodness in Steve. He was filled with death and complete hatred for the world, with sadness and dread.

He forced himself to roll off his father, sitting on the hardwood floor beside him, arms propped up on his knees. He said, truthfully, "I don't know what I am. Haven't for a while."

George started to push himself up, aged elbows quivering under his weight. Bucky made no move to help. Panting, he taunted, "And what do you think the world thinks of that?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. And unlike you, I don't really care. I couldn't care less about my image. It's his that matters."

He gestured behind Bucky, to his oldest children. "You care what they think about you. They're your kids. Of course you do."

He smiled, humorlessly. "Like you could ever relate to that feeling."

"You let them look at those pictures? Their father, laid out like a woman, objectified and pinned up all pretty -"

"Dad, I'm so glad you think I'm pretty -"

The slap that landed on his cheek didn't surprise him, and he pointedly ignored the punched-out sound that left Chrys's throat.

"You think people are happy to sit around and see a mascot like that? An icon? Because that's what you two are, whether you like it or not -"

"I worked for the world to see him lifke that! To see that he was worth something, because he was always worth something! Ma and Sarah saw it, I saw it, Peggy saw it -!"

"You never did anything!"

"I worked three jobs for him!" He pushed himself up off the floor, before his itching hands could grab on to him. "I worked and I provided, so he could keep doing what he loved. We had no idea how long he had, and it was what little I could do. The _least_ I could do. He was a privilege, and I didn't deserve him. He saved my life, _twice_ , and I didn't deserve any of it -"

"You shouldn't even be alive." George pushed himself to his feet. "Wouldn't that be better? No divorce, no drama - just buried in ice instead of dirt. Or maybe lost in the mountains. All alone."

The tears in his eyes were a shock, in a weird way. He knew that. He told himself that every night. But someone else saying it to him - in front of his kids - made it concrete. "Dad, I've been dead for so long, and the world chose to ignore it. I never wanted to live in a world that didn't have him."

A shaking finger pointed at him. "You don't deserve that shield. You know it was never made for you. Just like your wife, like nothing in the world was ever yours."

"Steve was mine. And I was his." He grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, tugging at it helplessly. He scoffed his foot against the floor. "Get out. I've entertained you for long enough."

"I didn't even get a drink. You always offer your guests a glass, or did you forget what your mother taught you? Chrysanthemum, sweetie, get me a drink?"

"You weren't a guest - you pulled my son in here and hit me."

"The son that's named after a cocksucker."

"Named after the man that saved my life," he growled.

"I'm not leaving."

"I could break your hip and everyone would believe you fell." He shrugged. "Awful clumsy of you, Dad."

"And I could kill you and everyone would blame it on a hate crime."

"Seventy year old against an enhanced? I'd pay to see that. Come on," he darted to him, sliding their arms together, his hand at the pressure point in the back of his bicep. He started tugging him to the front door, and he complied. "You can tell Ma I said hi."

"You're not talking to any of us anymore. None of us want to see your face."

"Then why did you come all the way out here?" He shoved him out onto the small concrete platform, slamming the door shut behind him. He locked the deadbolt, strung up the chain.

Inside, Grant and Chrys were seated on the couch, their heads pulled close together as they whispered harshly to one another. Chrys was saying, "You didn't see him when they were released. He was a wreck."

Grant responded, clearly full of guilt, "I tried to get here, but my car got totalled and my wallet was stolen -"

Chrys shook her head at him. "You're okay. You did what you could. He hasn't been fine for a long time. This was just the tipping point. I don't know what we can do." She looked up over his shoulder, caught Bucky's eyes, and let the tension ooze from her frame. "What the hell was that?"

He grabbed his mug of coffee off the counter as he passed it, on his way to his kids. "Your grandpa wasn't a fan of Steve. Or me, for that matter. I'm sorry you had to see that."

Grant stood up and tugged him into a hug. He gladly went into it, returning the embrace. "You have to tell me what's going on." _You have to tell me_ _what_ _you didn't when I was thirteen._

Bucky didn't let him go, keeping his arm wrapped around his son's narrow torso. "I know. Just - It's been a little while, kiddo. It's good to see you."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry." Bucky let him pull back. He waved around, gesturing with his hands. "I got busy, and you know how it is when you get busy. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s unforgiving, you know that."

"I'm going to go check on Bee." Chrys stood up, still unnerved from the scene. "You two can...talk."

Once she was gone from the room, Grant grabbed at his mug and pulled it to his lips. Bucky laughed, remembering the action from when he was just a toddler. At hearing his laugh, the twenty two year old narrowed his eyes. "You know you make it best, shut up."

Once he got his coffee fix, he handed the mug back and sat down in the corner of the couch. "Okay. Lay it on me. I've been hearing a lot from S.H.I.E.L.D., from the papers - Mom and Uncle Howard are trying to track down who released them, but they're not having much luck."

He shrugged, setting the drink down on the coffee table. "Doesn't matter who released them. Just matters that they were released. What's the news saying?"

"That you should get dishonorably discharged from service," he said, not sugarcoating a thing. Bucky hadn't ever done it, so he had nothing to return the favor for. "Have the shield and the uniform confiscated. Some people want you dead."

"Of course they do. The Howlies defy everything they stand for."

A sudden thought clearly crossed his mind, judging on the way his eyebrows pulled in. "Did they know?"

Bucky shook his head. "No. They didn't. Least, far as I know. I haven't reached out to them yet."

"You should. Matthew caught up to me while I was stuck. Uncle Gabe's really worried, and Dum's on a rampage. He's yelled at a few reporters."

He averted the topic; "Your car got totalled and your wallet was stolen?"

His eyes widened, and he slapped his knees. "Yeah, that. Some assholes beat out my passenger window and clobbered my engine. I got robbed outside a motel."

His eyes narrowed in disapproval. "I knew I had a reason to be worried."

"Dad, you never gotta be worried about me. I kick ass! I broke them." He grabbed the mug and downed what remained of the coffee. He listed, smugly, "A leg, three arms, a nose, and a collarbone."

"I don't know if your mom would be proud or disappointed."

At the mention of his mother, Grant shook his head. "Back on track. Sorry. So, you and Uncle Steve..." he made a 'go on' gesture with his left hand.

Bucky knew he didn't have to tell Grant everything he had had to tell Chrys. He didn't have to tell him about Azzano, the mission in Austria, or going into the ice and being found in 47', because he had seen the old files and reports. He bristled when he came face-to-face with Zola, wanted to rip his limbs off as much as his father wanted to skin him alive.

Those stories were half the battle.

"You saw the drawings?" he asked.

"The, uh...released versions." He cleared his throat, glancing away for a few moments.

In a small voice, he said, "They're all of real things. I'm not denying it."

"You never told me he drew."

"I never told you a lot of things."

They were both silent for a few moments, before Grant inhaled sharply. "And you guys were together. Like, _together_ together. Not just..."

"I'd've married him if I was able to." He wasn't hiding anything. Steve was the love of his pathetic life, not something to stuff away in the back of a closet when family came over. "If he hadn't died, if everything had turned out okay, you three would not be here. I'd still be dancing on the line of death."

"Why didn't you tell me it was him?"

He bit back on his words. "I've never told anyone about him. I've confirmed it, but never confessed. I didn't want to lay that big of a secret on you."

He nodded along, in understanding. "I wish you had told me."

"I wish I had told you, too. Before all this could happen."

He asked, hesitantly, "How are you and Mom?"

"I think that she and I were holding on to a lot of things, and we used those things as reasons to be together. It was never...good, I guess. Healthy. She's taking her time right now. We both loved him. She just never knew the details."

"She doesn't like those details."

"Nope."

"What are you going to do?"

He inhaled deeply, and voiced the full idea that had come to him the night before, but had been nagging him for days; "I think I'm going to go away for a while."

He looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"I'm going to go off the grid. Do some things I should have done a while ago..." The corner of his mouth quirked up. "It's been a while since I've done things just for myself, and I think I need to do them."

"You can still do a whole lot. The world's been changing for a while, so much is different - we can make a list."

"I don't want to do anything extravagant -" he started, attempting to put off what Grant's ridiculous mind could come up with

"Dad. You look thirty, and you're really sixty one. _You_ are the extravagant. Besides," he waved his hand in the air, "I just want to go skydiving."

Bucky groaned. "Ugh, no. No. I'm not going skydiving."

His eyes widened. "Not even to make your favorite kid happy?"

"I think Bee's my favorite kid."

Grant kicked his shin. "Fine. What are some things you want to do?"

He smiled just at the thought of what he had come up with the night before. "Stand in all the Great Lakes. Go to the Grand Canyon. Ride as many rollercoasters as I can. Just..." he sighed, "see the world when it's not at war. Live off of what I can do, not what the shield stands for."

His son grinned at him. "That sounds like an amazing start."

Bucky believed him.

<|>

Lake Superior was one of his favorites.

He had stood on the beach of Whitefish Point, a lighthouse and a wooden dock behind him. He had worn cargo shorts and a sleeveless top that he would never have dared to wear in public when he was younger, up to his knees in the water. The ends of his shorts had gotten wet, but he couldn't have brought himself to care.

Then he went on a personal tour out in Munising. He rented a kayak, and he boated the forty miles of naturally painted rocks. He floated in Rainbow Cave for about an hour, had climbed out of the kayak to get in the water, and he _was_. He was there. He felt peace. He could have drowned there and no one would know for hours.

Superior was the last lake he needed to finish his list. He kept pictures of each lake inside that old sketchbook of Steve's, that held the drawings of innocence and utter lust and no in between, the polaroids tucked between the old pages.

Now the next list would start. The Golden Gate Bridge. Snorkeling. Rollercoasters. Mount Rushmore. The Grand Canyon.

Even after getting out of the ice, something deep inside him had stayed frozen. He was finally trying to live, because it felt like he hadn't in so, so long.

He was trying to thaw out that final piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so excited to share this chapter since the very beginning! I hope you guys liked it!
> 
> (BUCKY'S VIEWS ABOUT THE ABORTION DO NOT REFLECT MY OWN! I AM COMPLETELY PRO CHOICE, NO ONE SHOULD TELL A WOMAN WHAT TO DO WITH HER BODY BESIDES HERSELF. IF IT IS HER DECISION TO TURN TO THE FATHER, THAT IS STILL HER DECISION. He is in '71, in the middle of all the controversy about abortion, and it was just illlegalized in New York. He is pro-choice, but to an extent. He believes that if it is possible, the parents should come to a mutual agreement. HE DOESN'T FORCE PEGGY INTO ANYTHING, because the second he actually changed his mind, Peggy changed hers as well - because of some of the things Bucky had said. Their relationship is extremely complicated and unhealthy, and that scene was just a reflection of that.)
> 
> THIS IS A MANDATORY BREAK POINT. I know you probably want to know what happens. You most likely won't listen to this, but I advise you do. Get a drink if you haven't had one, get your blood moving a little, grab some tissues if you need them.
> 
> The next chapter is really rough.  
> I'll admit it, and I like tough topics. I can't give anything away, but there is a death, and it affects Bucky significantly. There's a lot of violence, as well. You will probably want tissues, especially if you're hyper-emotional.


	5. 1980

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Death, KKK (I've had that scene planned since the very beginning, and I'm so happy it's here now!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's my birthday! Sending love and positivity to all of my readers (:

| **1981 |**

Bucky walked along a busy German street, his purple and green scarf pulled up over his nose. He carried his duffle bag, his gloved hand around the wide, flat strap, the weight a grounding against the side of his thigh.

He had learned a lot of German while he was drafted, especially while he was held in Azzano. He could understand some of the phrases that met his ears, but mostly the sounds around him were just mindless chatter, conversations weaving into other ones. Part of him did miss America, but a great part of him didn't. He was more free now than he had ever been before, now that he didn't have the shield weighing him down.

He found Howard Stark at the bar he had been told to find, sitting in a two-sided corner booth. Bucky slid into the seat behind him, unbuttoning his old pea coat and unwinding his scarf. The heat in the dive was from the movement of the crowd, and he had to appear normal. If he hadn't, he would've kept his coat on. He was always cold. He murmured, "How did you know where I was?" pulling the menu out from behind the sugar packets and seasonings. He cracked it open, dragging his eyes over the German orders.

"I might've sicced Tony on Grant."

He huffed, his bangs flopping over his forehead. He reached up to push them back. "Of course you did. What do you want?"

"I need your help."

He shook his head, an instinct. He knew that he shouldn't, that, either way, Howard couldn't see him. "No, Howard. I can't."

"It's just a HYDRA cell -"

"I don't do that anymore. It's not my problem."

He continued his point, attempting to convince Bucky; "We don't know if the Winter Soldier will be there, but you're the best manpower we have besides Grant -"

"You wouldn't dare," he grumbled, teeth suddenly clenched. Did Howard just come to tell him that S.H.I.E.L.D. would be throwing his son into the dangerous hands of the Winter Soldier? Because if he thought that would inspire him to help, he was wrong. It would only anger him further.

"I was going to say, we don't want to have to do that. Your kid's not scared of too much, but he refuses to go near the Soldier."

He propped his elbows up on the table, scanning his eyes over the stuffed heads that covered the walls. He felt the sudden need to paste googly eyes over the glazed over ones. "I don't know what else you want me to say."

"How about a 'goodbye'?" he snapped, losing the easy, borderline desperate tone he had been sporting. "You just up and left. No warning, no goodbye, _nothing_."

He grunted, getting out of his seat and circling around into Howard's booth. He set his elbows back up on the table, leaning forward. "I couldn't be there anymore. I had to do something. I felt like I was stuck. I had to make a change in my life."

His brows drew together. "You could have told us, you know." He gestured wildly between them, for no rhyme or reason. "You're the one who chose to bottle it all up, just like you're the one who chose to leave."

He scoffed, letting out a loose, humorless laugh. "You know I didn't. Peggy wanted me gone, I wanted to go, so I went."

"I thought we were friends!"

He scoffed, amused by the idea. He smiled, a sick sweetness coating his expression. "You lost my friendship when I found Tony with a handprint around his wrist and Maria burst into tears when I asked her why her throat was bruised." Bucky pushed himself from the booth, striding to the door. He left Howard behind; hopefully for good.

**| 1982 |**

The cherrywood door towering in front of him opened, and Bucky immediately sighed in relief. He was enveloped into warm, welcoming arms - he wasn't sure how long it had been since he was last hugged. It might've been Bee, on the last birthday of hers he'd been able to weasel his way into. Maybe Grant. Maybe Ellie, or even her cat Bluebell. Whatever it had been, it had been too long sense. He melted into the curve of Falsworth's embrace, his chin dropping down into his domesticity-and-age-softened shoulder.

"It's really good to see you," he said quietly, holding onto his old friend for longer than necessary - and maybe what was appreciated and tolerated. He wasn't sure where they stood, with any of the Commandos besides Gabe and Dugan. He had been told that they had both been furious with the release, of the blatant disrespect. He had gone to Connecticut in one of his first trips as a free man, to find the quaint farmhouse on Dugan's pasture flocked by reporters. Bucky's wadded through the sea of monsters, gripping his bag, mouth clamped shut as questions and demands were thrown at him. When a photographer grabbed his wrist to get him to look into the camera, Bucky turned right around and broke the damn thing.

It had taken longer than he had liked to get to the front door, but once he was inside he felt relieved and overwhelmed all at once.

" _I'm not gonna_ _pretend_ _I_ _understand this when I clearly don't,_ " Dugan had said after their long bear-hug, one that Bucky had desperately needed, " _but_ _I've_ _got you._ _I'm_ _always gonna be here for you, Barnes."_

Falsworth gave his shoulders one last squeeze before pulling away. He assured, "You, too. We were convinced you drowned somewhere."

He chuckled. "I mean. I did go snorkeling."

His friend smiled. "Yeah? Where?"

"Hawaii."

Falsworth's eyes glinted, his inner youth shining bright against the age apparent on his skin. "I should take you to the Lake District. You'd love it." He suddenly remembered they were on the front porch, glancing over his shoulder and then back around. "My wife was putting on dinner. Do you want to join us? You look like you could use something home-cooked." He poked Bucky in the stomach, where he had lost some of his muscle mass. He tried to maintain it through labor - doing the heavy lifting at some farms in the deep country (always returning to Dugan's place at least twice a year. He had a favorite farm.) Some of his employers had only kept him because he could get more done in a shorter amount of time, and it was useful. Some were on his side, and wanted to do what they could. Bucky was thankful for all of them, no matter their individual motives.

Bucky couldn't help the thankful, emotional smile that crossed his face. "Man, I'd love that."

So he ate with the Falsworths. Roast beef, golden potatoes, carrots. His wife, Mary, had been the girl he had spoken of while they were traipsing through European warzones, what he had held on to during Azanno. Their granddaughter was over, twelve years old and still wearing her dark hair in pigtails. She had just stared at him in shock. She made Bucky think of Rebecca, when she had been that age. Then again, she had braided her hair into pigtails throughout her adulthood, only stopping when she was in her late forties. The thought of his oldest sister made a pang of heartache course through him.

After dinner, which had featured polite small talk and loud laughter, Falsworth led Bucky to the back porch. They set their drinks - Bucky's glass had no ice, while Falsworth's clinked inside his own - on the patio dining table, taking their seats at the metal and wicker chairs.

"Why did you really come here?" was the first question. Bucky hadn't really expected it to be the very first, but he wasn't surprised.

He traced his index finger through the dirt on the tabletop. Outdoor dining wasn't exactly in season, so he didn't say anything. "I got a little lonely, I think. I was in France, at Dernier's grave, and I just...I never talked to any of you but Dugan, after...I can't talk to Gabe. He's legally family, and he's been on the outs with my dad since the very beginning, I don't want to be the reason for any more hurt." He leaned his head back, staring up at the darkening sky. The setting sun turned the treeline into a silhouette.

"What have you been doing? Seriously. You're seen in the most random places. There's no reason to any of it."

"I'm seeing the world when it's not at war. When it's not being drilled into ruins. It's...nice. Actually being able to see the best parts of Europe, not the swastikas and the death."

"You know that none of us could ever hate you, right?" Bucky turned his head toward him at the question. "My biggest question, when Dugan got ahold of me, was how the hell did those two idiots manage to keep that secret?"

He couldn't help but laugh. "Of course that was what you wanted to know. And the answer is, we were almost a hundred percent sure you knew. With being that close of quarters, we sucked at keeping it fully hidden." He waved it off. "Either way. Past is the past. We are here in the now." He reached forward and took his glass of water in hand, lifting it up just above eye-level. "To friendship?"

Falsworth followed his lead, but protested the toast. "Nah. How about...seeing the good in things?"

The corner of his mouth quirked up. Instead of replying, he clinked the rim of his glass against Falsworth's. He took a sip, and said, "You've always been wise, Monty."

The sun was almost hidden behind the bare trees. But it would come back, like the leaves and the flowers. Everything always did.

**| 1984 |**

Bucky met up with his kids in Central Park. Grant and Chrys were splayed out in a section of grass, Grant leaning back on his elbows. On his other side sat a young woman Bucky had never met, smiling as she watched the two siblings interact. Her honey-roasted brown hair was turned to gold under the sun.

When he was spotted, it was by Chrys. She let out a sound that was somewhere between a squeal and a downright shriek, grinning excitedly at him all the while. "You came!"

He quickly jogged the last of the distance. Stepping off of the concrete and into the grass, he said, "I don't skip out on plans. Come on, give your dad a hug."

She immediately jumped up and threw her arms around his neck, pressing a solid kiss to his cheek. After a few moments, she pushed herself away from him, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "We couldn't get Bee," she apologized. "But we do have a surprise." She turned to her brother, looking down at him. "Soon, right?"

He lifted his hand, turning the face of his watch toward his eyes. "Yeah, soon." He returned to leaving back on the heels of his hands, looking up at Bucky with a blank expression.

He regretted ever teaching Grant the Great Barnes Poker Face. They'd had a day back when the boy was just a toddler, and Bucky made him sit down in front of him in one of their blanket forts. They'd stared at each other for hours, and Bucky had trained the shield into his eyes, the dead set of his facial features, until he showed absolutely nothing. He knew Grant had taught Chrys the same way, so he never bothered with it. Needless to say, Peggy was not enthused with any of them.

Bucky took a knee in the grass, sliding the duffel bag off his shoulder. Chrys took her seat again. He turned his eyes to the mystery woman. "So? Introduce me."

"I'm Brooke." She held out her hand, and Bucky took it in his. "It's great to finally meet you. I've had to wait a few years."

Knowing that wouldn't be enough, Grant expanded, "Dad. This is my fiance."

His eyes widened. "I missed that?" he exclaimed. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, but we know you wouldn't miss the wedding for the world," Grant said, apologetically. "Right?"

"You just have to tell me when and where, and I'll make sure I'm there." He then smiled, pulling himself over the thorns of guilt. "I'm really happy for you two."

Chrys squealed - he was sure it was a squeal this time. She gestured to Bucky's left. "They're here!"

Bucky turned his head to follow her finger, and was taken back by the line of women walking with their chins raised and shoulders back, dressed in red, white, and blue pinup uniforms.

The Star Spangled Dancers.

He pushed himself to his feet. The woman leading the charge was dressed in casual clothes, denim jeans, red-and-navy blue flannel over a white T-shirt, and the iconic red Riveter bandana, a curl of dirty blond hair sticking out, laying over her forehead. She held a megaphone in one hand and a portable stereo in the other. She talked back to the people telling them to leave as she walked with purpose, never stopping to give them more than they deserved. As the line followed the sidewalk, passing their little group, many of the women waved and smiled at Bucky. A handful - many of the ladies that were noticeably older than some of the others - broke away from their formation, giving him a chaste hug before rushing back to their spots.

They made themselves at home in a large section of grass. The women - seemingly- hurried into their spots. The woman with the bandana set the stereo down at the edge of the yard, looking up toward the Barnes family. She grinned. "Come on, G, help!"

Grant slid his arm around Bucky's shoulders, beginning to lead him over to them. He pushed a folded flyer into his chest. With a sly grin, he cheered in a low voice, "Surprise!"

Bucky looked down at the flyer as his son led him, Chrys following with her purse and Bucky's bag. On it was Steve's face, blocking in the shadows and shapes with colors of the rainbow, his eyes sharp as he looked straight ahead.

_**FOURTH OF JULY** _   
_**IN MEMORIAM OF CAPTAIN STEVEN G. ROGERS** _   
_**PROTEST OF THE MISTREATMENT OF CAPTAIN AMERICA, STEVE ROGERS, AND BUCKY BARNES** _

_**Meet in the center of Central Park at 2PM, to see a** _ _**reunion** _ _**of the Star Spangled Dancers!** _

  
Grant pushed Bucky away as they came up to the grass section, and he sat down in front of the stereo. Chrys set their two bags down beside him, and he wound the straps through his right arm. He shouted, "Tell me when you're ready, ladies," as Chrys grabbed Bucky by the arm and pulled him into the front of the small, but growing - in size and curiosity - crowd. Brooke followed, taking the space on Bucky's open side.

"They all planned this," his daughter began to explain. "The Riveter, Vinnie - she's the daughter of one of Steve's closest friends. Her mom Josie is sick, can't walk too well, so she's standing in. He performed with them - or, for some, their family members. Everyone showed."

To say he was shocked, amazed, would be too little. There was nothing he could say that could capture what he felt, seeing them gathered in front of a crowd again, hands placed on their hips. It was spectacular, beyond words. Bucky was speechless. There had been nothing so public, so vulnerable, since the sketches had been released.

"Vin reached out to me and Grant. Thought that you should come out of the woodwork to see it...Dad?"

"G!" Vinnie called into her megaphone. He clicked play on the stereo. After a few quiet, suspenseful moments, the beginning of a song swelled through the speakers.

He smiled, behind the thumb he had pressed to his bottom lip. He knew it.

Live, Bucky could hear the large breath the women inhaled, before launching into the show; they began their upbeat marching, to the center of their "stage," closing Vinnie's way as she strode forward. " _Who's strong and brave, here to save the American way?_ "

She spoke like a god into her megaphone; "Steve Rogers died for the good of the world. He didn't die so hatred could continue!"

" _Who vows to fight like a man for what's right, night and day_?" The women didn't smile - their lips only formed around their words. Some of them had glassy eyes, some had sharp anger in their irises. " _Who will campaign door-to-door for America?_

_Carry the flag shore to shore for America_   
_From Hoboken to Spokane!_   
_The Star Spangled Man with a Plan_ _!"_

"Captain America isn't a person. He is a character, a tool in propaganda."

" _We can't ignore there's a threat and a war we must win_!  
 _Who'll hang a noose on the goose-stepping goons from Berlin_ _?_  
 _Who will indeed lead the call for America?_  
 _Who'll rise or fall, give his all for America?_  
 _Who's here to prove that we can?_  
 _The Star Spangled Man with a Plan!_ "

"The men who have played him, they're the most real men I have ever known to exist. They have feelings, legacies left behind, but, above all, they didn't want to be under the government's thumb. Neither of them had a choice in whether or not to pick up the shield. Steve thought he was just going to war as a normal soldier. Bucky thought he was just finishing the job. Steve had to prove himself once - but how many times has Bucky had to prove himself to us?" she demanded. "He killed the Red Skull. He did a job that was forced upon him as soon as he was brought out of the ice. He built a stable family. He has always stood up for what he believes in, no matter how parts of America may feel about it. He represents what America is supposed to value, what every American is supposed to have an undenied right to - life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

" _Stalwart and steady and true,_  
 _(See how this guy can shoot -)_ "

"You want to dance," Chrys insisted. "I know you know the steps. Don't lie to me."

He rolled his eyes, though the corner of his lips tugged upward. He shrugged, smiling down at her.

" _Who'll give the Axis the sack and is smart as a fox?_  
 _(Far as an eagle will soar)_  
 _Who's making Adolf afraid to step out of his box?_  
 _(He knows what we're fighting for!)_  
 _Who waked the giant that napped in America?_  
 _We know it's no one but Captain America_  
 _Who'll finish what they began?_  
 _Who'll kick the Krauts to Japan?_  
 _The Star Spangled Man with a Plan!_  
 _(Who's strong and brave, here to save the American way!)_ "

  
"We have got to stop dragging these brave, sacrificing men along with what we, as individuals, believe America should be. If Captain America didn't exist, they would still be living their free lives. No one would bat an eye at any of this because they were nobodies. Think about that, everyone here. Let Bucky live his life. He's had it rough. Let him - and Steve, wherever his soul may be - rest in peace." Scattered applause came from the small, shifting crowd. Vinnie grinned. "We will be staying here for a couple hours, or until we get arrested. We hope you stay to listen to our ranting." She turned around. "Give a huge thanks for the Star Spangled Dancers, old and new!"

Bucky slipped out from between Chrys and Brooke, running up to Vinnie and slamming into her with a hug. "Thank you," he whispered - maybe insisted - into the juncture of her neck. " _Thank you, thank you, thank you_."

**| 1985 |**

The world had been quiet, since he found out.

He had been in Connecticut, staying a few days in Dugan's guest room, eating soup and thick-crusted bread that was reminiscent to all their childhoods. He played with the children of the kids he proudly called his nieces and nephews, let the toddlers try to knock him over after he had braced himself just right, throwing them around with gentle wrestling moves. They loved it. It was nice for him, too, being around children again. His own were so grown up, and the one that was still a minor he wasn't allowed to see. He had grandkids on the way, and it was terrifying.

Then Dum Dum gave him the phone. Bucky hadn't spoken to his brother since his father told him to back off (he hadn't wanted him to take it out on his siblings or his mom, so he had listened). He hung up the phone, tossed it back to his old pal, and had packed his few items. He ran. He caught a bus, he sat in the very back with a choked-up throat and tearful eyes, not able to believe how the world could do this.

His family had moved out of the heart of Brooklyn. They lived in a nice suburban house, with enough room for all the kids and their extended family to come around for the holidays. There was a hand-made wreath on the door, behind the glass screen door. The welcome mat was old, but not old enough for Bucky to know. He sniffled when his eyes fell on the unkept magnolias in the front garden, on the stack of casseroles and bagels that sat on the cement porch. He knelt down as he climbed the stairs, picking them up. The bagels were still warm and the basket had packets of cream cheese and butter inside. There were even a few latkes thrown in there for good measure. The basket had a tag that said _From Rita_ , and Bucky realized he had gotten so caught up in the world that he had momentarily forgot about Rita. How could he forget Rita? She paid him more than she should have, gave him food when it didn't sell in time. She kissed his cheek every day he came in, like an annoying mother, and he had basked in every ounce of her love for him - because she did, and he loved her in turn, like another mother, because she was. She was almost a hundred, Bucky knew. He'd have to go visit the shop while he was close.

Out of place, invited, he knocked on the door. It took a minute for the main one to open. Only the glass separated him and Ellie.

She was in her sixties. She was beautiful. Silver streaked her dark honey gold hair, lines criss crossed her face, heavy smile lines around her eyes and cheeks. His tears got the best of him, and Ellie opened the door as they both fell apart. She pulled him in for a hug, her arms tight around his shoulders, and he pressed his free hand into the small of her back and pushed his face into her blond-grey hair.

"You and I have to talk soon, okay?" she whispered against his cheek.

"Yeah. We do." He made himself pull back, and looked down at the casseroles and bagels he had under his arm. "Uh, these were sitting here, so I thought I'd bring them in." His voice broke. They were all there for the wrong reason.

Ellie nodded, and moved so he could follow her inside. He pulled the glass screen closed behind him, he took the wooden door from Ellie when she tried to duck back behind him to close it. Then he followed her inside.

He came face to face with family - some he'd never met, some he knew from when they were little. He knew James and Elizabeth, who stood in the kitchen with Gabe, but he didn't know the two men that sat at the dining room table with an almost seventy year old Rebecca. He didn't know the toddlers that napped in the living room, that probably had no idea what was going on. He had never met the pregnant woman nestled beside Dominic, or the older toddler that sat in his lap, but he knew their names.

His presense was clearly a shock to them. Rebecca slowly got up from her chair - one of the men ( _my god, they're the twins, that's Charles_ ) beside her lent his shoulder to her aid - and held her arms out to him as she neared.

Bucky met her halfway. He set the food from outside on the table, set his bag down on the ground, and wrapped her frail body into a hug. She pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, like their mother always had. She pulled back after a short time and patted his chest, just over his heart. "How have you been?"

"Not very good," he said, truthfully. "You?"

"Not very good," she echoed. "You -" she looked around the room. "You don't know everybody."

He shook his head. "No, I don't." He turned to Charles and Matthew, the twins, who both looked at him with stony expressions. "Boys. It's good to see you."

Charles nodded and averted his eyes to the table top. Matthew said, quietly, "Been a while."

"Yeah. Too long." He reached across the table and clapped him on the shoulder. He turned his head back to Becca. "Where's Dad?"

"He went into town," Dominic said, monotone, coming in from the living room. "God, Buck, you shouldn't even have to look at him, not after what he did -"

"Speaking of," Ellie interrupted, "we know that you weren't going to get a say in anything, no matter how early you got here. The funeral is on Saturday. We found something, and we fought for it for you."

Bucky was confused. He knew he wasn't going to get a say in anything. What did they have that was worth fighting for? Then a roll of paper was set on the table in front of him, and her hands were spreading it apart. His mother was smiling up at him in the form of charcoal and graphite.

"Jesus. I can't believe she kept that." He touched the edge of the old, yellowed paper with the same gentleness he used to handle the old sketchbook in his duffel bag.

"She kept everything he drew her, and she got a lot of his work from your apartment after the war. I found the box the other day," Dominic said, leaning in beside him. "You can take it, if you want it."

"Now's not the time to talk about that," he forced out through the lump in his throat. "Um..." He shook his head, pulling his hand away from the drawing to tuck a loose strand of hair back behind his ear. He hadn't had a proper cut in years, his dark, curled locks of hair brushing barely an inch past his shoulders. He found, while he was on his own, that a simple trim wasn't too difficult. And if he was close to Connecticut, he just stopped in with one of Dugan's daughters, taking advantage of having a niece who was a hairdresser. "What's the plan?"

"We're going to the funeral home tomorrow to finalize everything. She bought the plot beside Sarah and Joe, when the two of you went off," Rebecca said, voice soft from age and emotion. "Will's there. She'd want to be there, too."

"Yeah, she would. I like that. Then?"

"Before we go to the burial, we figured we'd get people to meet here and have lunch. A celebration of life."

"She'd love that."

Somehow, everyone ended up sitting at the table, eating their portions of the casseroles left on the porch. They spoke of Winifred Barnes - a hell of a mother, the best grandma these kids could ask for - with tears in their eyes and water in their voices. A deck of playing cards - the ones Bucky and Steve had doodled on all those years ago, when they were bored and Bucky longed for the slightest spark of rebellion - had ended up on the table, so they cycled through the games they could think of.

For a moment, however long it was, he didn't feel so lonely. His siblings were smiling at him, he was sitting beside one of his closest friends, he was being caught up. He felt like an active member of the family again. He was happy - as happy as he could be, at least - that he hadn't noticed his father trudging back into the house.

A hand cuffed the back of his head, cold, calloused fingers holding onto the nape of his neck. Bucky's smile immediately fell, the laugh dying in his throat. "I thought I told you to never come here."

Voice level, he insisted, "Don't make this about me. You make a big deal out of everything. Just let it go."

The hand released him, pushing him forward slightly. George retreated into the kitchen, right in Bucky's line of sight. "You don't get to talk to me like that."

Bucky just sighed and continued shuffling the cards. "What next, Becs?"

"Euchre," she chimed, voice resigned.

"Don't ignore me. You know better than that."

He slapped a hand against the wooden table. "You don't want me talking to you, then you want me to acknowledge your _sorry existence_. Make up your goddamn mind!"

"Who the hell called you?" he demanded. "Why are you here? You weren't invited."

"I called him," Dominic interjected, voice soft from exhaustion. Purple was smeared beneath his eyes. Everywhere else, his skin was pale and pulled taut.

George started to lay into him. And Bucky wasn't going to have that. He knew there would be nothing they could do to make him simmer down, so he pulled the attention away from his youngest sibling; "My mother's dead, and I haven't spoken to her in almost ten years because of you! He had a right to call me."

"No." Bucky's wish had come true. George turned back to him, a shaking finger pointed at him from above Becca's head. "It was because of you and your actions, that tore this family apart."

"I never tore anything; you pushed me away!"

"I did no such thing -"

"Really? You don't recall coming to my house and telling me never to step near my family again?"

"Don't put this on me," he growled. "These are the consequences of you actions. You have to suffer through this."

"I didn't mean to -"

"You knew very well what you were doing -!"

"Bee came home with a black eye! You think I wanted that? I wasn't the one to release them - I never wanted any of this!"

"I always knew. Your mother told me to forget about it, your siblings would tease you for the girls you always had on your arm. But I knew it -"

His skin flushed scarlet. "Don't say anything about him, or else I swear to God -"

"Then you moved in together. One room, one bed. What else were people supposed to think?" _Even if we hadn't been together, it saved_ _money_ _and space._ Bucky stayed silent. Logic had no place in this argument, as far as his father was concerned. "He spent too much time on his art, you on your hair -"

He laughed. He had to. The upturn of his mouth lacked amusement, instead angry and hateful. " _For fuck's sake_."

George went on, sticking slur after slur into his collage of hate. He let it go, too tired to continue the fight, wanting it to end, until he made a comment that made Ellie tear up. Bucky raised his voice, maybe louder than necessary. It was the voice he used to gather attention in a bustling crowd, when he had the shield on his back and the weight of the government on his shoulders;

" _HEY!_ " George froze. Bucky had never used that tone on a family member, and everyone in the room knew it. Charles and Matthew's eyes went wide. "I get enough of that from people who think they own my life. I don't need it from you, too." He licked his bottom lip, hands itching to grab on to something. "I'm proud of who I am. I've done so much, I'm proud of all of it. My kids are fantastic. I've never looked down at them. I've always supported them." His voice caught for a few moments, making him pause. "Why have you never been able to do the same for me, for any of us?"

"You were ruined from the start. Thank god I'm not saddled to that kike bitch or your sorry asses."

Now that...Bucky had nothing to say to that. He wasn't surprised; part of him had always known that his father hated their heritage. He was angry, but not for himself. He had left his longing for a real father way back in twenty three. He was angry for Becca, for when she was little and all she had wanted was for her father to love her. For Ellie, who was always so scared to admit who she was, to tell everyone who she laid down beside when she went to bed. For Dominic, who had been with Bucky and Steve more than his father.

Bucky sighed. "You make me real sad." He scraped his chair back, and went to roam.

Hours later, as the sun was going down, he found himself on the back porch. His legs were crossed over the wood. He shivered in the chill night, and he held an untouched mug of coffee in his hands.

He glanced over his shoulder when he heard the door slide open, and back shut a few moments later. Then Matthew was easing himself down onto the porch beside him, ice clinking in a glass of soda.

"He was always that way, wasn't he?" he questioned, boldly.

Bucky wasn't surprised he was asking. And he wouldn't lie or sugarcoat it, because he knew Becca was like him and never lied to her kids. "Yeah. I never did anything right. Joined the church, not good enough. Got a couple jobs, not good enough. Told them I enlisted, not good enough...Lived, not good enough." He took a sip of his cold coffee, and sighed into it. "Was he ever like that to any of you?"

"He never liked anything we did. Made him shit in elementary - Christmas ornaments and stuff, you know - he'd throw them out. Mom and Dad got into it with him a lot, not so much anymore. They've known for a while that it's useless. How're my cousins? G's still at S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"Working with his mother, yeah. He's Director-in-chief. Commander Barnes. Bigshot agent." Bucky couldn't help but be proud. "His wife's pregnant."

Matthew smiled. "He must be a wreck."

"I called him - you should be able to see it for yourself very soon."

"And Chrys and Bianca?"

"My girl's getting married. Bee, I'm not too sure. Chrys told me that she's mentoring younger kids at her school." He inhaled deeply. "How are you two? Taking care of everything that needs to be taken care of, I hope."

He shrugged. "I'm not doing half-bad. Tina and I got a cat, and my little girl loves her like crazy - you haven't met them."

Bucky shook his head, in a sad agreement. "No, I haven't. I'm sorry about that. What's your daughter's name?"

"Stephanie. She's obsessed with history. Her great-uncle's Captain America, she loves it. She'll probably be all over you tomorrow."

"I'm happy to do whatever she wants. I hope I live up to her dreams...And your brother?"

"Charlie was who I wanted to talk to you about, actually." He cleared his throat. "Um...I know you saw his looks today." Bucky bit his lip for a few seconds. He didn't say anything, and Matthew went on. "When the drawings came out, his wife was sick. She had a bad case of pneumonia. He was lined up for a good job - a real good job. He was going to be a judge."

Bucky already knew where this was going. He winced, pushing his face down into his hands. "Oh, god."

"The drawings were released, and he lost his shot at the job. His firm fired him. No one would hire him. His wife got sicker. She died two weeks later." He flicked his gaze up toward the sky, at the stars that Bucky had his eyes trained on. "He doesn't hate you because of it. He couldn't care less. Before his time and all that. He hates how it effected him. He blames you."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Talk to him. He really loved Grandma Winnie. He's taking it real hard. He's trying to be there for Ma and Aunt El and Uncle Dee, we all are, and he's wearing himself thin already. Let him know that people are here for him. That you're here for him." He paused, and added, dryly, "And maybe get Grant to buy him a drink."

Bucky nodded. "I can do that."

"For the record, I think that the picture Dee found is really beautiful. Uncle Steve knew what he was doing."

He made a small sound of amusement. "Half of the time, he said he just scribbled and it came out as something passable."

Matthew huffed out a small laugh. "God, I get that." He slapped his knees, lightly, setting his back straight. "Ready to go back in?"

"Nah, I'm going to channel my inner fourteen year old and avoid his wrath for a little longer."

"Want company for that?"

"Whatever you want to do, kid."

So Matthew stayed, after he moved so he was laying on his stomach. They talked, like they'd never done before - about Bucky's childhood, being fathers, random events that Bucky had missed over the past years. Bucky told him, after being prompted, of his traipsing around the country. They stayed out until midnight, when Rebecca came out onto the wooden porch and corralled them back inside, pushing warm blankets at them and confiscating their cups.

Bucky fell asleep right beside the dwindling fireplace - maybe a little too close to it, but he didn't care. He didn't feel cold, and it was nice. He woke up after what must have been a few hours, to one of the kids pushing their skinny body under his arm, nestling under his warm quilt. He made no sound, just drew the girl in and tucked her head under his chin, her hair soft as downy feathers against his neck.

< | >

Bucky sat on the floor of the sun room, a little nook of a thing at the very back of the house. Two of Elizabeth's triplets sat on the couch behind him. The walls were a pale yellow, turned the color of melted butter when enough sun hit the paint. The floor beneath him was a dark spruce.

He was searching through the box of drawings that Dominic had given him. He hadn't seen so many of these for years. So many people, many of whom Bucky hadn't thought of in so long - Rickie, Suzz, from the club. Rita, Bucky's boss. Will Proctor, as a smiling teenager, his arm around Becca's waist. Bethany and Katie, a couple that they had gone on double dates with for years - He wondered if the two of them were still together and safe. He hoped they were.

As he was sifting through memories, his heart taking heavy blows that pushed it into his stomach, the girls braided the hair that just skimmed his broad shoulders. He couldn't very well walk into any old barber shop and ask for a cut, and he couldn't always get to Dugan's daughter when the time came. He had to make do, and if growing it out was the answer, then he'd do just that. Maybe he'd donate it, sometime in the future. Lillian and Ella did his hair up, unraveled the braid, and started over again. At times it was the traditional three-strand. Sometimes they were French, each of the girls having a section of his hair as they sectioned it off into pigtails. Sometimes fish tail, but Lilli kept giving up halfway through, mumbling about how her mother did it perfectly. The movements were soothing, and Bucky appreciated the distraction and their grounding gentle touch.

"You know," he started, tilting his head back, slightly as to not mess them up, "I know how to braid, too."

" _You do?_ " Ella asked, her voice low and absolutely shocked. When he craned his head back, he grinned at seeing her wide blue eyes and her slack jaw.

He pushed himself onto one hip, hiking his bicep over the edge of the couch cushion, leaning into the girls' space. "I have two daughters. Of course, I know how to braid. My oldest, she loves the Viking styles."

"What's a Viking?"

His smile widened, and he immediately dived into what he could remember of the Vikings; changing the stories up when he fumbled or found he had forgotten something earlier on. Either way, the girls were entranced by him, staring into his eyes and hanging off of every single word.

When he didn't go on, they both leaned closer. Ella insisted, "Tell us more!" At the taken-aback look he hadn't been able to eclipse, she leaned in even closer. "Please?"

He couldn't say no the puppy-dog eyes she was sporting. Couldn't even if he had the strongest willpower. He'd gone too long without Steve fighting everything he said, without Grant and Chrys's meddling, he wasn't used to stubborness; especially when it was coming from a body less than a hundred pounds.

"Okay. What do you want to hear?"

"Who's Steve?" Lilli wondered, no hate or ulterior motive in sight. It was a nice change for him, after being ridiculed for so long.

Ella elbowed her. "You know who Steve is. He's our uncle."

"Then why have we never met him?" she demanded.

He scrunched his nose up a little, peering at the girls through narrowed eyes. "Where did you hear that name?"

"Grandma Becca and Uncle Dee were talking about you and Steve last night. And Mom calls him Uncle Steve."

"And how did you hear Grandma Becca and Uncle Dee?" he inquired, setting his chin on his forearm. "Were you listening to something you weren't supposed to hear?"

Lilli shrugged, looking down at her soft hands - _no work, just a child_. "...Maybe?"

"Later today, you should apologize. It's rude to eavesdrop on conversations. Unless you're a secret agent, and then it's a requirement." He let his head fall to the side, pillowed on his bent arm. He had a couple thin braids woven through his dark hair, felt them as he moved. "Oh, let's see. What about Steve?"

"What about the time I got into his art supplies?" Rebecca's oldest, one of her two from William, suggested. Bucky looked up to see James coming closer to the couch.

"Uncle Jay!" Lilli and Ella both stampeded for hugs, jumping on their other uncle as soon as he sat down on the cushion beside theirs.

"Hey, sluggers. You having fun with Uncle Buck?" He grinned widely at them, tugging affectionately on Ella's pigtails. As they replied enthusiastically, he peered over their heads and gave Bucky a questioning look.

Bucky forced himself to relax again. He gave James a slight nod.

Despite the signal, James told the girls, "Why don't you guys bother Aunt Gracie? She's in the living room with your cousins. Tell her Jay sent you, I told you guys to help her."

"Okay!" Lilli jumped off the couch, going on the run. Ella wasn't so eager - she pressed a kiss to the curve of Bucky's cheek and the hollow of James's, before following her sister with a last-minute farewell tossed over her shoulder.

James leaned his shoulder into the couch, crossing his arms and staring Bucky down. "Seriously. All this - is a lot. Are you okay?"

He shrugged, turning his eyes away. "I'm great, Jay. Just what I wanted, to be the only one to not be able to meet with the funeral director."

Averting the topic - Bucky was sure he didn't know what to say to that, he asked, "How do you like the new house?"

"I got eyes on the layout after he pissed me off yesterday. I needed to know where everything was, where someone could come in, run out of...It's about being aware of your surroundings." He shrugged. "It's nice. A bit much. Definitely made for a big, loud Jewish family."

He chuckled. "Yeah. It's great for the holidays. It can get really empty really quick, especially without the minis running around."

"I'm sorry you lost your dad," Bucky blurted. James froze, fingers sinking into the couch cushion. Bucky barrelled on, knowing he had to continue digging the hole. "I never got to tell you that. I wasn't able to see you before I had to leave." He sighed, pushing his head up and propping it with his knuckles. "And when I came back and finally spoke to you guys, it was too late and I didn't want to dig into the wound."

James nodded, a little awkwardly, like he knew what he should do but wasn't sure how to. "You never had to tell us that. We knew. Steve took us for the few days he was still here. He was...he knew how it felt. He was a good support for us. And when we saw him as Captain America," a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, wistful and happy, "he hugged me and Liz first. Told us he was so happy to see us, his niece and nephew."

Bucky tilted his head, a wistful smile gracing his lips. "He really loved you guys. You were family to him."

"He's always been family. Always will be."

Filtering in from the front of the house, the exclamation of, "Grant!" was heard. Bucky sat up.

James pushed himself up from the couch with a slurred "Le'go." He held a hand down to his uncle, and Bucky took it as he got up. They made their way through the house. Grant was peeling off his coat when they emerged, Brooke sliding her mittens into her coat pockets. As soon as his arms were free, Lizzie's third triplet, Willow, slammed into him. Grant bent down to scoop her up into his arms. She giggled, hands wrapping up in his sweater.

The small group migrated to where the rest of the family was in the living room, taking the last few open spaces. Grant and Brooke settled on the floor at Bucky's feet, and at some point Ella climbed into his lap. As more people were arriving, people were catching up. Bucky laughed at some of the stories told, but mainly stayed silent and played with Ella's hair.

"You're a selfish bastard!" Rebecca shouted, voice hoarse compared to what it must've been when she started. Bucky sat up from his relaxed position on the couch, his arms instinctively tightening around Ella's waist. As soon as he did it, he removed his arms from around her. The door slammed shut as Becca went on; "What are you gonna do with all this to yourself, huh? Fill every room with golf clubs and fishing gear?"

"Who ever said I was leaving?" George snapped back.

"You did!" Dom reminded him. "Yesterday, when you explicitly called us kikes and don't want to have anything to do with us as soon as the funeral's done."

Grant turned his wide eyes on his father. Bucky tiredly shook his head in reply, mouthing, " _I'll_ _tell_ _you later._ "

As the argument spun on, Ella turned around and asked Bucky, "What's a kike?"

"A bad word for a Jew," he murmured. He lifted her off his lap and set her on Lizzie's. He pushed himself up, wading his way through the living room and striding through the hall leading to the dining room and kitchen.

"What's the point of keeping a house you're not living in? Are you seriously going to stoop that low?"

"Who else would take it?" George demanded. "Tell me, Becca - you and Gabriel have a house. Dom and Grace have a house. Ellie's got a place."

Gently, just enough for Bucky to hear, Ellie murmured, "I want it." Her voice sounded stuck, lodged in her throat. The yelling always made her freeze in her tracks.

Bucky took pity on her and jumped into the fray; "I think Ellie should get it."

Becca and George both froze, turning to look at him with wide and narrowed eyes. His father said, "What?"

He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. "Think about it. She's been stuck in an apartment all these years. She deserves a place like this. She can host the holidays, keep the place in the family. It can go to one of the kids later on."

Dom's brow furrowed in confusion. "You've been living in an apartment since you left home?"

She nodded. She inhaled deeply, her shoulders rising and her stomach expanding. "Yeah. It would be nice to be in a place like this." She turned her eyes up to Bucky, her face bare - she looked terrified, but also determined. She set her jaw. "I think it would be a great change for my partner and I."

Bucky smiled down at her. He quickly wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his torso. He sheltered her from their father's yelling, already planning to force him to sign the papers. It didn't matter as long as they were done. He said, "I'm proud of you, blondie."

< | >

"You look like you're having the time of your life," Gabe said, sarcastically.

Bucky laughed lightly, not looking up at him because he simply couldn't. Ella and Lilli were at it again, adding knots and tangles to his hair as they braided and unraveled them over and over again. "Yeah, well, how could I resist them? They're sweet."

"Lizzie and Eric did good with them." He walked into the section Bucky was tucked into, between the couch and the pushed-back coffee table. When he started to lean over and brace his hands on the couch and table, Bucky said;

"Use my shoulder." He held up his arm. "I don't mind, man."

Reluctantly, he placed his left hand around Bucky's forearm, clamping his right over his shoulder. He carefully lowered himself to the ground, sighing when he let him go and was situated beside him. He then gestured to the box of drawings. "You okay?"

He looked back down at them. "I think. I'm not sure." He shuffled through another stack inside, and his heart broke when he found one of himself. A simple portrait, nothing extravagant. Not like others he knew to exist.

"I feel like I should've talked to you about all this years ago," he murmured.

"I couldn't. It's just...it was a shit situation - ow! Hey!" He craned his head around, putting his stink eye on Lilli and Ella. "Don't tug. I'm not a doll."

"You said a bad word!" Ella defended, her voice muffled through her hands.

He widened his eyes at her, dramatically. "Really? I didn't even realize." He turned back to Gabe, letting the girls continue their business. "We can talk now, if you want."

"I do kind of want. Um...Break the ice - I feel like I should have known."

Bucky immediately felt guilty. "No! Gabe, there was no way -"

He interrupted him, his voice heavy with emotion; "I was the one who found you. Looking back on it, it all makes sense. It was like you had left your body. Like you couldn't stand being conscious if he wasn't there. You didn't say or look at anything until after a few hours at base." He made a noncommittal sound in his throat, and closed his eyes for a few moments. "You shouldn't have had to go through that grief alone."

Bucky sighed. "Hey, girls, can I get up? I promise I'll let you finish this later. Go find Aunt El and give her some good bear hugs, okay? She's having a tough time."

"Okay!" Lilli exclaimed, scrambling across the couch and jumping down on Gabe's other side. Ella followed her, and they both screamed, "Aunt Ellie, Aunt Ellie!" as they went on their search.

Bucky got up, pulling his left knee underneath him. "Do what you need to do."

Gabe used his arm and shoulder again, and Bucky only stood when Gabe was steady on his feet. He slowly guided him backward onto the couch. His friend, his brother, sat down heavily. It caused cracks to run through his heart. Who was he, to never age while everyone around him wore down? Bucky was wearing down, too. It just refused to show.

"Have I ever told you why I crashed the plane?" His voice came out as a soft whisper.

Gabe shook his head.

"I didn't...It was the only thing I could think to do. I've known for a long time that where Steve goes, I go. I was in shock on the train. Then, on the plane, I picked the easiest option. I wanted to be with him." He shrugged, looking down at the section of couch between Gabe's thigh and Bucky's crossed calves. "Crashing the plane was a win-win...And you know what's sad? A dead man coming back to life. They should have left me there - I wanted to be there."

"Don't say that."

That was that.

< | >

Bucky, who hadn't been in Brooklyn for years, had two bouquets. The family buried her themselves - Bucky was the main brunt, which he didn't mind at all. Grant, who had the serum in his blood as well, helped along with the twins.

With dirt on their suits, they climbed out of the grave, and took their places. Jessie came up beside Ellie and threaded their gloved fingers together, in front of the entire family. Matthew stood with Tina and Charles by his side, his hands holding Stephanie's shoulders. Gabe was stationed beside Becca, James and Elizabeth and their families close to them. Dom was on his own, hair a mess. Bucky stood closest to the headstone, Grant and Chrys on either side of him. 

"James."

He turned.

His fourteen year old, who he hadn't seen in too many years, threw herself at him. Her arms wrapped around his neck, tugging him down to her. He returned the favor, pulling her closer than needed, but not as close as wanted.

"You've grown," he said into her auburn hair. He leaned back, to get a good look at her. He tucked her hair behind her ears, holding her chin up. "You're so beautiful, Bee."

"She was an amazing woman, your mother." Bucky looked up at hearing Peggy speak again. Her hair was pinned back nice and neat, done up in a delicate knot on the back of her crown.

"Who told you?" he asked, voice soft, shoulders sagging.

She pulled him up from the low squat. Bianca let him go, and Peggy took him in her arms. He fell into her, into memories and what used to be comfort, into strawberries and chrysanthemums and _Peggy_. "Chrys called yesterday. For Bee. I just thought...is it okay that I'm here?"

He pressed his lips just beside her ear, chaste. "You're perfectly fine."

On their way out, he set one bouquet atop the fresh dirt of his mother's grave. He set the second on the first grave he had ever dug, the petals bright against the weathered, packed ground.

He made his way to Rita's deli. Matthew and Chrys tagged along with him, while Grant and Charles went for their drink. He passed the old apartment on the way, and he gazed up into the sixth floor window. There were flowers on the glass, in neon paints. In one line, they formed a rainbow.

He saw familiar faces, some sticking out more than others. Old fellas he had gone to school with were living through the faces of their children. But the biggest blast, one he had recently thought about, was walking out of a pharmacy.

"Beth?" he called, speeding up into a steady jog.

The woman looked up, searching for where the voice had come from. When her eyes fell on Bucky, her face split into an all-encompassing grin. She shrieked, throwing down the canvas bag and her purse, running toward him. Bucky met her in the middle, his arms going around her waist as hers looped around his neck, lifting her up against her chest and spinning her around. She squealed, "Oh my god. _Oh my god!_ Look at you!" Knowing that he wasn't letting her go anytime soon, she set her palms on his collar and used the purchase to shift her shoulders back, to look him in the eye.

"Good to see ya, sweetheart," he said, smoothly, that old signature Bucky Barnes smirk gracing his lips. "Still got it, I see."

She swatted his chest. "Says the man who hasn't aged!"

Bethany and Katie used to be pillars in he and Steve's life. Saturdays they would all meet up, have some fun away from their homes and work, basking in the understanding each couple had for the other. Bucky had gotten to know Beth's movements so well from years of dancing with her that he could easy tell what step she would take before she took it. She was, without a doubt, one of his closest friends. They had a mutual agreement that if the two of them weren't the way that they were, if Katie and Steve were out of the picture, they could see themselves falling in love with each other, or at least marrying for protection (which had been something the quartet had discussed, just a few times, Bucky and Beth wearing matching rings, living in a nice house down the street from Steve and Katie). In truth, he had been, just a little. His chest got warm when he was able to make her laugh, he felt complete when he held her during a dance. He thinks, mostly, it was the idea, the possibility, the what if, of her. The last time he had seen her, he'd taken his draft papers to her and Katie's apartment and told her all of his fears. Kissed her cheek before he left, gave her a great big hug (because their hugs were always complete and total squish-fests. Faces tucked into the crooks of each other's neck, arms a tight vice. Just the way Bucky liked them.)

It had been too long.

Bucky set her back on the ground, but kept his arms around her plush waist. She wasn't the skinny thing she had been in her youth. She had meat on her bones. Her metabolism had taken a much needed rest. Age had treated her kindly, in all truth. She was so recognizable, and Bucky appreciated it.

He exclaimed, "I'm so sorry I never reached out -"

She gasped softly, immediately pulling him back in, pressing her face to his collar, just below the hollow of his throat. "Just come and visit, and everything will be forgiven." She jerked away from him, striding back to her fallen purse and bag. She pulled them up, and tugged a card from her purse and tucked it into the pocket on his coat. She patted his chest, smiling smugly. "Same place." At that, she was off, darting past Chrys and Matt.

Down the block, Chrys came up to his shoulder; "Who was that?"

"A girl I used to go on double dates with," was all he said. He now walked with even more purpose, even as the number of glares and averted eyes ascended.

The deli was in the same spot, and just the woman he wanted to see was tending to the produce outside. Within a few feet, and declining, he said, "Thanks for the basket."

She looked up, and her eyes lit up. "Yakov! Come here, let me look at you!" She folded his face between her withered hands, tugging him to and fro. Bucky couldn't help but smile. He felt young again.

**| 1987 |**

He was staying in an abandoned cabin in the woods - a safe house, of sorts. He wanted time away from the eyes of other people. He wanted to be alone with his camera, out in nature untouched by man. He wanted to organize his thoughts, write out more lists and some of his recent adventures. Then he planned to go into the town nearby and eat at a cafe where a Belgian Waffle topped in strawberries and whipped cream was being advertised. The small things in life made him happy. They had to, considering he was going to be alive for a very long time.

He was losing radio connection, this deep in the woods, as he drove. To ease his nerves in the silence, he mumbled more songs to himself - he'd had old songs in his head all day, since the cafe had of course been old fashioned and wanted to keep the essence alive.

Then a cold sweat ran down his back, and he knew what the cold meant.

It was dark. He was alone. It was too quiet. Maybe it was just his weird nerves and the unease that was always settled in his gut.

He felt a little safer when he reached across the center console to the glove compartment and pulled out his pistol. He didn't feel one bit guilty about that. He gave the old duffel bag sitting in the passenger seat a pointed look before turning his eyes back to the road.

Red flickered in the corner of his vision. A gunshot rang out into the dark, too-quiet night.

He stopped the car. Then he smelled the smoke.

Fire. There was a fire in the middle of the woods. Probably the cabin, or something natural.

The road was too narrow to pull his rented truck around. He stepped off the accelerator, changed gears, and started to reverse. He refused to take his eyes off the gravel road.

It was too dark. The shadows looked like they were moving. He didn't have his brights on because he knew the road better than he should have. His hands tightened around the steering wheel and the gun. He didn't like this.

He could just turn on his lights and save his heart the worry. It was easy. Just a simple control. But he was a coward, so he just kept slowly reversing.

The world decided to fix that.

There had been so many times in Bucky's life where he was simply scared. There were only a handful of times he'd been terrified; when he first fell in love with Steve, when his father would beat his mother with everything he had in him and then would go in on Bucky, when he ran out of bullets in the traincar, when the rail was falling just before Steve pulled him back in.

He just had another thing to add to his list of terrifying things.

Two torches. Some were in the traditional white. One was in in black. Bucky knew what the black meant, had since he was little and they marched down Pennsylvania Avenue.

Black was death.

There were only a few of them, but he had a nagging feeling that there was more. Hiding, like they had been - fucking god his heart was in his throat.

A fist hit his door, and he flinched - they could see him, he could see them -

He was going to die and no one would know unless they boasted.

Then again, the Ku Klux Klan were proud of everything they did, weren't they?

It was all a blur - they opened the driver's door, he shot blindly as he was being pulled out. Then pain - searing pain that sent him all the way back to Azzano, to the table that haunted his nightmares - flared in his shoulder blade and he collapsed. When he looked up, it was into the holes of a pointed black hood. Green eyes looked back at him. It was a sense of humanity, eye color - everyone's irises were different, just like the people themselves were.

He snarled his way through injections all the way down his back, through his arms. He shouted, he was kicked. He moved, there was another eruption of pain. He didn't fight, he knew there was no use. No one could hear what was happening, and no one would know until after the fact.

They pulled him up, threw him against the side of his truck. The scream that left him was long forgotten. Last time he had screamed like that was in Azzano.

There was a thin blade to his throat, a hand pushing his jaw down. The man in black, the one with the green eyes, had pulled up his hood but it was too dark to truly see his face. He spit in his mouth, and Bucky's body reacted as anyone's would; he gagged.

This guy was fucking sick. But Bucky was an animal, through and through - he spit back. His teeth met a clammy hand. He bit down and tore his head to the side.

His head was bashed into the metal of the car, and the world twisted. The overwhelming puncture of pain came again, on the inside of his left thigh in so many places, a sound rivaling gunshots pairing with it.

Then he was sliced, repeatedly, and he wasn't sorry for the scream that left him. Blood was suddenly streaming down his thighs, not from whatever they had shot him with but from the blades - he had heard of the time they castrated a black boy with a razor, _oh god these were razor blades -_ and Bucky lashed out. He kicked, he punched, he pulled a torch into his hands and pushed it into cloaked bodies until it went out, and pushed the sharp end through one of their stomachs. His ash-covered fingers found one of the blades, and he scored his pain into their robes and skin.

One of the members in white was running into the woods, cloak spotted in red. The others were scattered around him, bloody and burned and dead. Bucky couldn't - wouldn't - follow.

Steve would follow. But Bucky wasn't him. Never had been.

He pulled himself up - no, his legs would not buckle, _do not give out on me not now -_ and threw himself into the driver's seat, tugging the door shut on his way. He restarted the engine, he turned his lights on like a sane person, and then he drove like an insane one. He went partway off the path, he ran over a moving body, but he turned himself around and was advancing on the town like a madman. Sobbing, he reached down and pulled at one of the injections in his thigh until his fingertips were bleeding just like the rest of him.

Out came a two-inch-long iron nail.

When he reached reception, his emergency phone started to go off the handle. He grabbed at it blindly, sides burning, and pinned it between his ear and shoulder, antenna sticking out.

"There's a burned cross on the front porch. What in the ever-living hell did you do?" Peggy shouted through, and Bucky's initial response was a high-pitched sob.

"I didn't do anything!" he snapped back, hands tight on the wheel, gun under his thigh - his skin burned, he didn't know how he was alive. "Get out of there!"

"James, what's going on?"

He couldn't find it in him to be nice. "You know what a burning cross is! Get out of there while you can - go to Howard's, start moving - fuck, leave it, for all I care! Just go where they can't find you and Bee. Call Grant and Chrys and make sure they're safe, I need to call my sister -"

"James. You need to tell me what happened. Now."

He sobbed. "I - Pegs, I've never - I can't breathe."

"Get to New York." Her voice was suddenly level. It sunk into Bucky's irritated skin. "Meet us at Howard's. I'll call your family and check up on them. _Just get here_."

< | >

Bucky was on the road for less than a day. He didn't want to stop. If he stopped, they could catch up with him. He didn't wash up, he didn't change the tatters he had only recently called clothes, he just drove.

He ditched the truck outside of Virginia. He stole a motorcycle, his bag slung over his back and straps secured, and he didn't feel one ounce of guilt. He then ditched that between Kentucky and Pennsylvania. He rented another car, something faster, and made it to Long Island in the evening.

He didn't knock when he got to Howard's, emerging from the taxi on the street in front of the house. He was bone-tired, he couldn't keep his eyes open or the tears in check. He was still scared, sure that they had followed him, that they knew where he and everyone that mattered to him was.

Grant met him a few steps into the foyer. Bucky fell into him, wrapping his stinging arms around him and pulling him close. His son was asking him what had happened to him, what he needed, but Bucky couldn't answer it.

He was okay. They were okay.

"Dad. Come on. Come back to me." Grant was pinching his cheek, below the thin line of what had been a cut.

Bucky winced. "Okay. Okay." He tried to walk, but his legs shook so Grant stayed glued to his side, bracing him with his hip and keeping his arm around his back. He strangled a shout when they fell onto the pristine couch, a tangle of limbs. He pushed his face into a white overstuffed cushion. He swore, "What the fuck?"

"You're heavier than you look!" he exclaimed.

"James!" Peggy's voice flooded his ears, and suddenly he was wrapped up in her strawberry and chrysanthemum perfume, her hands tugging at his torn clothes to get a look at his wounds.

He was bleeding again. Fuck. On the white couch, too. He'd have to give the Starks a check for the cleaning bill, or maybe buy them a new couch altogether.

"Cap. What happened?" Howard's voice was steady, but oozed with undeniable worry.

"KKK," he gasped. Grant touched the dark bruises on his stomach, and he slapped his hands away. Too close to the blood on his pants, everyone was too close to him -

"How are you even alive?" came from Tony, seventeen years old, containing not one bit of a verbal filter. At his side stood Bee, eyes full of fearful worry.

"Maria, get the first aid." Howard then questioned further, "What did they do?"

"Burns. Razors. Nail gun. They -" he keeled over Grant's lap, muscles screaming in protest, and vomited.

Now his body was relaxing, just a little, and everything was happening at once. The adrenaline was gone, his goal was met, and his body was giving way.

"We need to find the nails," Peggy said, hushed. "We need this off. Get this off."

They tore his shirt off in pieces, and he just kept his head in his son's lap. He didn't want to face the world after what they did. And they were going to tell the world what they did, no question about it - they defiled Captain America, of course they were going to talk about it.

"Are my siblings safe?" he demanded, gasping and hysterical.

"They're safe," Chrys promised, leaning over Grant's shoulder. "It's okay, Dad. You're okay."

He just grabbed on to her hand and squeezed.

He started to breathe in a somewhat normal pace once the nails were out. An unsteady line down his spine, in his arms, dotted on the inside of his thighs. What they did with the razor blades, the blood was a good enough tell. No one did or said anything about it. The serum would take care of it soon enough. Peggy massaged cream and ointment into the dotted burns on his back and arms, and Bucky hated every minute of it.

"You should be dead," she whispered.

He didn't look up from the pillow. "I know. I should have died in 45', but look how well that turned out." He paused. "I killed all but one. He went into the woods and I didn't follow."

"And?" She always knew when he wasn't done.

He huffed. "I may have bitten one of them."

"James," she said, clearly about to ridicule him.

"What else am I supposed to do when a fucking extremist spits in my mouth?" he snapped. He sat up and threw the pillow he was laying on across the room. He then pushed himself to his unsteady feet. "Know what? Done. Fucking done. Seeing the world, doing whatever the fuck I was doing. I'm done. I've been done with all this since forty-fucking-five, it's all bullshit - the world, my life, everything. You. _You._ " He turned on Peggy, who was frozen and wide-eyed. "I'm done with you calling me only when you need me, or when you need to yell at something -"

"James, you're angry."

"Of course, I'm angry!" he snarled. "I'm angry at everything. I was ready to die, I did die, the reports said 1917 to 1945, and we had to rewrite them. I'm pissed because I lost everything I loved, then I built a life back up, and I lost that too because you couldn't deal with the fact that I loved him first. You married a queer and you couldn't deal with it, so you threw me out, then you pulled me partway back in, and that's shit, Pegs. It's bullshit and you knew it, you _know_ it. I tried to do good in the world - I hold signs in all those riots because the world is finally changing, so much has been happening, and I just want it to happen. It needs to. But I get arrested, and the police love it when they get their hands on me. I get showcased in news reports. The world never wanted me, they wanted Steve - once he was strong, once he was big and good enough for them - and they take it out on me. I want him back, too. I'd throw myself off every fucking train if it meant he would be standing here, I'd let go before he ever came close to the edge of the car. I'd let Zola have another hack at me, I'd catch pneumonia again and hand Lohmer another hot shovel - for fuck's sake! I'd put myself back on that facility, if it meant he was safe." His hands twitched at his sides, the need to lash out at something heavy in his bones, but he forced himself to unclench his fingers and run them through his dirty hair. "I'm not James Barnes, I'm Bucky; I swear more than I should and I'm not a good person - I'm pissed. I'm done. All I am is a science experiment and a broken heart, and no one needs that. How much does the world really need Captain America? They don't. The shield's in storage. It's covered in dust and cobwebs, and you know what, maybe I am, too. I'm old, just like all of you. The world is aging, and I'm not. My people - my boys, my family - are starting to go, and I can't deal with that. You, the kids, I can't live with that. I _refuse_ to live through that."


	6. 1990

**| 1992 |**

Bucky found Tony in March, a good three months after the publicized funeral for Howard and Maria Stark - _he_ _hated every second of it, but he knew he had to stay. For a friend he had once had, for the times they joked around in London while Bucky wasn't running Ops_ _with_ _the Howlies. For the man who had named him and Peggy Tony's godparents_. The twenty one year old was sitting in the basement of the Stark's Long Island home. A skyline of empty glass bottles surrounded the armchair he was collapsed in, a half full bottle of liquid bronze in his hand, fingers loose around the long neck.

Bucky sighed. "You're going to poison your liver."

Tony barely acknowledged his presence. He just snarked, "Yeah? Sounds fun. To new experiences!" He toasted with an imaginary companion, and leaned his head back as he practically inhaled part of the remainder of the bottle.

He left the doorway, marching into the gloomy basement. "You didn't show." He stole the bottle from his hand, taking a swig for himself. He hummed. "Smooth. Howard's private stash?"

He tilted his head back, eyelids fluttering. "Didn't feel the need to. And yes. I've known about it since I was ten." He narrowed his eyes, and gestured seemingly-blindly at him. "You cut your hair. Thought you had a female amish lifestyle sort'a thing."

A self-conscious hand reached up to touch the half-length cut he had pulled up with a hair tie. "Dugan's daughter has a shop. I go to her for trims." He snapped his fingers in front of Tony's face, and an obvious jerk ran down the boy's spine. "Why didn't you go to the funeral?

He shook his head, tried to grab the bottle from Bucky's iron grip.

Bucky shoved him back into the chair. He repeated, hardening his voice into Captain America's, "Why didn't you go to the funeral?"

"Because it's his fault!" Tony suddenly exploded, going limp in his seat. He let his head fall back, drunk tears filling his eyes. "I don't - it's his fault she's dead. The only person that ever told me they loved me."

"Tony -"

"He never told me he loved me - never even told me he liked me. He wanted me to be better than you and Steve, he held you guys above me to try and _motivate_ me." He spoke with a clear bitterness and hatred; it was a tone Bucky had never heard from him. Sarcasm? Always. Anything that made it seem like he didn't care, Tony Stark did. "You know what it did? It made me set impossible goals and disappoint him _and myself_. And he wasn't a charming guy when he was disappointed."

Bucky knew what it was like to have a father like that. But it wasn't what he sought Tony out to discuss. "I'm here to talk about the scene. We can talk about our horrible dads later."

Tony just rolled his eyes. "Tell me, O' wise one."

He swallowed, thickly. "The scene's a lot like Dernier's." Tony pulled another bottle from the other side of the chair. He popped it open, the sound detonating through the room. "Too clean, too...staged. I don't think it was an accident. _Gimme that_." He snatched the new hard liquor bottle from his loose hands, earning an indignant squawk. "You are twenty one years old. You've already graduated MIT. Act like it." He raked his hand through his hair, the bend from the ponytail still there, and set the two confiscated bottles on the couch that was multiple feet away. "The biggest company in the world has fallen into your hands. What are you gonna do? Sit around and drink? Or get off your ass and do something worthwhile? Obadiah's running your company, working his ass off, while you wallow in self-pity. Yes, your parents are gone, it's horrible - believe me, I know, I get it. But you can't let it define the rest of your life."

"What if I don't want the company?" he postulated, cocking his head as he looked up at Bucky. He shrugged. "I've been getting prepped for it my whole life, but I don't want it. It was his, I'm just an heir." His eyes suddenly lit up, like he had thought of the best idea in the world. "Obadiah can have it! _Stane Industries!_ He's more into the weapons than I ever was, anyways." He slapped Bucky on the arm, as if to get him to 'lighten up.' "Come on, it'll be great for him!"

Tony was just slowly picking at Bucky's temper, wearing it down and down until it fought back. "For once in your life, can't you take something seriously? _Get up!_ " He gripped the back of the chair and tilted it forward, causing Tony to tumble out. He splayed out on the floor, looking shocked and dazed.

" _What the hell?_ "

Bucky set the chair back down on all fours before crouching down at Tony's level, bracing himself with one knee on the floor. "Stark Industries is an impressive company. But it's also very vulnerable and could gravely harm the world. To be honest, I don't trust Obadiah with a damn thing. I don't...something is _very_ off about him. And I've been told that I'm a good test of character, so I'm going to trust my gut. You can't let him run your company for longer than he has to."

"Buck -"

"Give yourself some time," he went on, not giving him an out. "Recharge, make some plans, surround yourself with people you trust. Make yourself a strong support system, that will hold you when you need to fall back." He reached out and set his hand on his shoulder. Tony raised his head, locking their eyes together. "This may very well be one of the worst times in your life. If you have the same sort of luck I have, it's far from the last. But you can't let those things beat you down." He squeezed his shoulder, shook him a little when his eyes became unfocused. " _You are Tony-Fucking-Stark, and you will be a force in the world_. Good or bad, that's up to you. Now take your company. It's yours, not Stane's. Let him know that he has no place in running it."

**| 1993 |**

"Who do you think she's with? Will or Gabe?" Chrys muttered in his ear, as James and Charles good-naturedly squabbled over the same topic. She had her hands wrapped around his forearm, leaned into his side.

He tilted his head toward her. In a lowered voice; "I'm biased. That's a question for someone else. I love them both, but I'm Team Gabe all the way."

Gabe had passed barely a year before. The funeral had included a good portion of the Barnes family. Bucky had made calls to the last of the Howling Commandos (Morita, Dugan, Falsworth) personally, and they had shown up - _they had gone to a bar hours after the service, performed their tradition, added another name to their lengthy list. To Steve, to Junior, to Sawyer, to Pinky, to Dernier, to Gabe. Friends, family, pillars._

Chrys picked at the arm of his peacoat. "How old is this thing? Older than G, I know that."

"Got it after I got out of the ice," he replied, absently. The November wind pulled strands of his hair out of the french braid Lillian had pulled it into earlier that morning - she always braided his hair when they saw each other.

Chrys hummed and reached up, tucking strands back into folds of the braid. She frowned, and pulled out the elastic holding it together. Bucky swiped at her hands, exclaiming, "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph - leave me alone! You're all over me."

"But -!" She moved to untangle the braid, but Bucky swatted at her hands again.

"No." He reached behind his head and ran his gloved-fingers through the loose braid, shook his head to make it settle naturally against his neck and shoulders. "Happy?"

"Maybe. Not sure. When are you going to cut your hair?"

He replied, flatly, "Never. My dream is to be Rapunzel. A knight in shining armor would be pretty nice."

She chuckled, catching on to his clear sarcasm. "Lilli and Ella would be in heaven."

He cracked a smile, but he knew it didn't reach his eyes. He wasn't sure what was harder - losing his mother, or his sister. Winifred Barnes had always been in his life, but he couldn't remember a time without Rebecca. His partner in crime, the sibling that would side with him in every argument against their other siblings. He had gone to school a year late and was stuck in the same grade as her and Steve. He had been by her side for the Playground Dress Fiasco they swore to never tell their parents about, for her crush on Timothy Balefield in third grade, for the two day boyfriend in junior high that had kissed her best friend in front of her (Bucky'd punched him the next day, gotten suspended but felt no ounce of guilt about it because he had felt Jacob's nose break under his knuckles.) She had been at his heels in every righteous act to defend Steve's honor, had been just as much a friend to the sickly Irish boy as Bucky had. She was the first family member he had spoken to after the war, after the ice, and he had held onto her with everything he had in him. He didn't have to tell her that the war had changed him, because she knew. The war had changed her, too, even if she hadn't actively been in it.

Chrys squeezed his wrist, her fingers hooked over the heel of his hand. "Dad?"

He licked his cold, dry lips. In a voice that gave away his lie, he said, "I'm fine."

The funeral went on - James hugged on Elizabeth as she sobbed on and off, Charles and Matthew stood shoulder to shoulder. Dominic held Gracie close to his side, hand white-knuckled over her waist. Eleanor hadn't been able to come. She was just so tired and in so much pain -

A figure caught Bucky's eye. It shouldn't have. But there was a man rushing on the sidewalk, dressed in leather and TAC gear, a mop of wind-blown golden hair concealing his face.

Grant hissed, "Is that -?"

Bucky grabbed the back of his jacket, pulled him closer. He acted out a hug, his chin set in his son's shoulder. "Take a walk with me."

Chrys turned her head toward them, giving them a skeptical look. Grant murmured, "We'll be back," and followed Bucky away from the funeral crowd, toward the very edge of the cemetary. On their way, they passed Joseph and Sarah Rogers, William Proctor and Winifred Barnes. Bucky skimmed his fingertips over his mother's grave in passing, but continued on.

"Is that who I think it is?" Grant asked, arms crossed; Bucky knew very well that his gun was in a holster underneath his bicep. As Deputy Director - since 82', when he was promoted to Level 9 after the passing of Agent Daniel Sousa - he was almost always armed. Even at aunt's funerals.

Bucky held up a hand, and crossed the street with purpose. He tracked the Winter Soldier as he changed course - his redirection was sudden, unplanned - and ducked into the mouth of an alley. Two men scurried after him, dressed in thick, padded coats and canvas trousers.

He felt Grant take the exact same move - quickened pace, tense form, ready for combat. The two of them crept up to the mouth of the alley, and Bucky peered around the corner.

"No," a raspy voice protested. It wasn't from age, Bucky could tell - it was a voice that hadn't been used in a long time. "Don't come any closer."

"Compliance is rewarded," one of the men promised. Bucky glanced back at Grant, who had a stone-cold look on his face. "Are you going to comply?"

"No! I can't, I won't -"

Russian spilled from their mouths, and Bucky realized he was holding his breath. He exhaled silently from the small part between his lips, letting some of the tension ooze from his joints. The stream of foreign language ended, and silence followed in the first few moments. Then;

" _ **Soldier**_?"

" _ **Ready to comply**_."

"There's more coming. Fall back!" Grant hissed. Light footsteps receded, and Bucky - who felt like he should stay, felt like there was something he had to know - turned and followed. He caught up with his kid at the end of the block, threw his arm over his shoulders and pulled him into his torso. "There's something about the Winter Soldier that just -"

"There's something awful about it," Grant murmured, keeping his eyes on the pavement. Bucky glanced over his shoulder, into the reflection of a store window. They weren't being followed by anyone who wasn't a regular civilian. "I've been keeping an eye on it for years - the Winter Soldier is good at hiding, good at killing, and not much else. I'll figure out the story behind him. There's gotta be _something_."

"That could take a long while," he reminded him.

"It'll be my mission in life. There's something we're missing, something important."

The father and son ducked across the street to the cemetery. A horn honked just before their shoes met the grass. Bucky let his arm fall as they turned back to the road and watched a sleek black car pull up to the curb.

They both waited for the door to open, and when it did, Bianca slid out of the backseat with Tony Stark at her heels.

Grant did not take the sight well, immediately exclaiming; "What the hell are you doing with _him_?"

Bianca rolled her eyes. "Jarvis has chastised me enough. I don't need it from you guys." She pulled her trench coat tighter around her waist. A pale pink scarf pooled out from underneath the collar, the end of her black dress peeking out the bottom. She looked very put together - her cheeks had color, her hair - she was the only one out of the three of them to have brown hair. Chrys and Grant's had inherited Winifred Barnes' dark blond - was pulled into a clip on the back of her head, and her lips were colored a violet red. "Sorry we're late. _Someone_ ," she turned her stink eye on Tony, "decided to have a hangover."

Tony suddenly stood to attention, looking offended. "Hey," he reminded, "I'm building my tolerance."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever." She directed her attention back to Bucky and Grant. "What did I miss?"

Grant shook his head. He turned on his heel and walked back to their family members, muttering about how the world was falling apart.

Bucky gave his youngest a questioning look, and she shrugged helplessly and mouthed, _I'll tell you later._ She crossed the few steps toward him, wrapping her arms around his torso and squeezing him into a hug. "How is everyone doing?"

"Bad," he said, voice cracking. "Not unexpected."

She held him tighter for a few moments before letting go. When she moved away, she wrapped her arm around his. "One of the only times I met her was grandma's funeral, right?"

"She was around when you were little," he amended. "You just don't remember it."

She took a few moments to reply. "I don't really remember anyone's names..." she said, guilt hanging off her tongue.

"That's okay," he assured. "No one will be offended."

They joined the rest of the family, Tony trailing at their heels, being respectful - for once in his life - and staying quiet.

< | >

There was low laughter as the Barneses (and honorary members) filed back into what would forever be known as the family home. Charles and Grant - who had Chrys's one year old, Dylan, on his hip - leaned into each other, breathless from not being able to stop giggling over some inside joke.

There was a slam, from above them. Hurried steps. And then Jessie appeared, partway down the staircase. Her black hair a mess, tears staining her pale cheeks.

Bucky's heart plummeted deep into his stomach. It felt like he had just taken another harsh blow from an enemy - all the air knocked from his lungs, his muscles suddenly burning, a harsh sting in his chest and eyes.

He left everyone behind and darted up the stairs, slipping past Jessie on the top stairs and calling, "Ellie?" into the second floor. He heard someone follow close behind, and knew it was Dominic. The master bedroom door was open, and Bucky walked in like the place owed him something.

He almost froze in the doorway. Ellie was so small underneath the baby blue duvet, her frail hands folded over her thin stomach. Her long blond and silver hair was partially fanned out on the pillow, mostly tucked underneath her head. Her blue eyes stared up at the ceiling, glassy and -

Dead. She was dead.

He had thought that he couldn't cry anymore that day, but his eyes welled with yet another round of tears. His voice didn't just break, it _shattered_ ; "When?"

"Less than ten minutes ago. I found her a few minutes before you guys got back," Jessie explained, coming around the other side of the bed and dropping down onto the open side. Her syllables were clipped short as she tried to keep herself from falling apart.

Bucky turned away from his sister, facing his little brother, whose face had taken on a whole other shade of brick-red as his red-trimmed eyes overflowed with tears. He had never had a life without sisters. They just lost both of their sisters within days of each other. They were the only two siblings left, the oldest and youngest - though the oldest would never get old and the youngest would eventually die as well. "Dom -"

"Don't," he cut him off, voice tight and barely existent. He shouldered past him, sitting on the small section of bed beside Ellie's hip. He laid a shaking hand over one of her's, folding his fingers underneath her cold ones. Bucky took the last open spot, at the very foot of the bed. A tear slipped down his cheek, fell off the edge of his chin and created a dark splotch on the blue comforter.

**| 1996 |**

"My health is declining," Peggy began to explain, smoothing down the front of her pantsuit. Grey circled around her dark curls, her skin folded around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. She looked tired, aged and weary, ready to settle. "I recently put in a resignation notice to the World Security Council. They sent a reply."

"And?" Grant motioned for her to continue. "What did it say?"

She squared her shoulders and glanced at Bucky, who all but froze when their eyes locked together. Last they had been in close proximity was when she was pulling the two-inch nails out of his back, when he had screamed at her in front of their children and the Starks. Her face was stoically blank, but her eyes said more. He knew her expressions, how she hid her feelings - but her eyes were her windows. She inhaled sharply, turning back to their son. "You've been preparing for your duty as Director for many years. It has been an honor to lead you through it, to train you to take my place." A small smile tugged at the corner of Grant's mouth, excitement glittering in his eyes. "And because of that, I regret to tell you that you will not be promoted. Agent Nicholas Fury will be lifted from Level Eight to Level Ten"

Grant's smile immediately fell - shattered against the wax floor beneath his feet. "...What? I - I don't understand - That's not how this works -"

Bucky frowned as Peggy explained the decision; "The line of succession was tampered, yes, but it was the Council. I can't oppose them. They wanted someone a little...younger."

"By, what, six years?" Bucky exclaimed, crossing his arms tight over his chest. "That's barely a dent, in the grand scheme of things. No, they think Fury's better for the job."

"They think I'm not competent?" Grant mouthed, disbelief heavy in his whisper of a voice.

"You will still be Commander Barnes," Peggy assured. "Deputy Director. You're not moving an inch. They want to keep you where you are, because you are good at your job. They trust you where you are."

"Yay," he cheered, noncommitedly. He shook his head, the sarcastic, angry smirk dying from his lips. "I have to go. I'm sorry." He spun on his heel and marched out of Peggy's office. The heavy door slammed shut behind him, like it always did.

"Why do they really want Fury to be Director?" he asked, his voice soft and nonthreatening.

She lowered herself down into her desk chair, sighing subtly when her weight was off her feet. "I don't know. I trust Fury. He wouldn't be working for S.H.I.E.L.D. if I didn't. Grant's the best choice - he is experienced, has been trained by the founder and an original agent, which is great in of itself even if those people are his parents." She sighed, setting her elbow on the arm of her chair, leaning her cheek into her knuckles. "He deserves the job, James."

"That's one of the only things I'm certain of," he confided. He huffed and pushed himself off of his perch on the arm of a wooden chair in front of Peggy's desk. "I'm gonna track him down and talk to him. He may listen to me."

"He always listens to you," she murmured, her eyes fluttering shut.

He could only nod. He began to walk from the office, but when he came close to the door, her voice rang out, stronger than it had been just moments before;

"Bucky. Wait."

He turned around, the soles of his boots stuck to the floor.

When she found that he wasn't going to say anything, she said, "I'm sorry."

He bit the inside of his bottom lip. He treaded carefully on the brittle ground; "For what?"

"For everything." She said it as if he should know - which, in truth, he did. "For setting impossible expectations, for pushing you away, not sharing the important things with you." She swallowed, blinking a few times to clear her head. "For working with Zola and not telling you why."

Frost prickled along his spine, making him stand a little straighter. "Why was he so involved?"

"Howard and I didn't chose to work with him. The Secretary and the Council had pushed us all together."

He frowned. "And you couldn't swallow your pride for even a second to tell me that?" He strode back through the room, dropping down into the chair he had been leaning against. He shuffled it closer to the desk, leaning over it. His voice came out as a harsh whisper; "Why did you do it? Why did you do all of what you just said?"

"I didn't know how to talk to you," she gasped, her throat visibly constricting. "You were in so much pain, I didn't know how to tell you the truth. We had Grant, and I started to - I started to feel confined and-and trapped." A single tear slipped down her wrinkled cheek, sliding into the corner of her pale lips. "And Steve; I thought - I thought I could jump into my work and a new life and just...continue. It was a lot harder to move past him that I thought it would be."

He wrapped his long sleeve in his fist. "Once he's in your life, he never leaves."

She nodded, confirming his statement. "I was so horrible to you. I took my personal frustrations out on you. I had no right. I made you miserable."

He shrugged, not sure what to do or say. He confided; "I was so sure that I did something wrong. I just didn't know what it was. I wanted so badly to know what it was, so I could fix it. But there was nothing to fix. We were broken from the start. There was a wedge between us, and we both chose to ignore it until - we couldn't."

She pursed her lips. "Steve."

He nodded his head slightly, just one little lift and fall of his chin. "Yeah. Steve."

She sniffled, tearing her eyes away from his. They were still warm and honest, pulling you deep into their dark depths until you felt enveloped in positivity. "It was better when we were friends," she whispered. "One-handed pushup competitions -"

He smirked into the flat side of his knuckle.. "I won, fair and square. Dum Dum kicked me."

She laughed, light and breathy and broken. "I will always be the champion, Barnes." Her smile died just a little before she asked, "Can we be friends again?"

He sighed, then inhaled deeply so his stomach would expand. "We'll get there, Pegs. Now," he pressed his palms into the edges of the chairs' arms and pushed himself up, "I have to go find our angry kid." His hand was on the door handle when he found himself asking, "Hey, Peg?"

"Yes?"

"You still use that strawberry and chrysanthemum perfume?"

She chuckled. "It was discontinued a couple years ago. I use oranges and cream."

< | >

He found Grant in the shooting range. Suit jacket shed and thrown haphazardly onto the floor, dress shirt sleeves shoved up above his elbows, fingers tight around the shotgun and his eyes focused on the random targets. Bucky leaned his shoulder against the barricade between stalls, arms crossed, knowing that Grant could see him in his peripheral vision.

He eventually paused in shooting, to eject the empty clip and insert a new one. Bucky took pity on the multiple _obliterated_ targets and unravelled his stance, setting his palm firmly on his forearm. "Back down a sec. C'mon."

"Sometimes you just gotta shoot something," he said under his breath, like he was assuring himself. He set down the gun and threw his hands up. "I - I - Just wanna punch something. I don't know. I need to move."

Bucky smirked. "Spar me. I can go for as long as you want." He clapped him on the shoulder, turning him away from the targets. "We can go to the gym, and you can work off your anger in a somewhat healthy way. You're not even wearing the headphones." He tapped his knuckles against his head, just above his ear. "Fucking idiot, that's what you are."

"The Security Council certainly thinks so," he growled. His hands were clenched into shaking fists at his sides, his shoulders bunched up around his hunched neck. Bucky didn't reply, just focused on getting him to the gym. They found it to be empty, which was thrilling - being in a full gym reminded him too much of basic, which was embarrassing in itself.

Grant rolled onto the boxing ring, and Bucky followed suit. He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over the edge. "Any rules?" he asked Grant, who was pulling his unbuttoned dress shirt from his waistband, baring the muscle shirt underneath. Bucky took the chance to use the tie around his wrist and pull his shoulder-length hair into a bun on the back of his crown.

He shrugged, tossing the shirt to the side. "No foul play, like pressing too hard into pressure points. I guess the usual - no biting, hair pulling." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

Bucky raised his fists. "As I'll ever be."

Grant lunged first - Bucky jerked to the side, his fist going through the air beside his head. He turned his shoulder into Grant's torso and pushed him back. He didn't seem phased, just rushed back in with a knee aimed to the stomach. Bucky used the heel of his hand to push his knee to the side, knocking him off balance.

Starting slow. Going steady.

But Grant wanted more.

He came back in with fists flying, and Bucky let him. He deflected, blocked, ducked, just letting him get all of his negative energy out. He wasn't sure when exactly he had started yelling, but Bucky knew it was happening. Swearing at nothing, yelling that he deserved the job, he'd worked for it.

The air was punched from his chest when Grant performed a move out of their set routine - sidestep, hook a leg around his torso, twist and take down. As Grant got back up to his feet, he ranted "The only reason I've gotten so far is because of who my parents are! Doesn't matter that I graduated top of my class at the Academy, doesn't matter that I've been working here since I graduated high school - all that matters if who you and Mom are. And you know it's true."

Bucky sighed, hopping back up, readying himself for more. He could bring out the big guns, if that was what was wanted. Grant swung and he ducked, switched to his first offensive move. He stepped under his arm, wrapped his arm around the small of his back, and elbowed him in the back. They switched sides of the ring.

"Your anger is good," he assured. "Expected. It's great. But you said it yourself - experience, top of all your classes. You're strong, G. You have records on all the simulations and tests. Doesn't that make you feel good? Knowing that all those low-level agents see GMB before they go in? Because it makes me goddamn proud." He wrapped his leg around Grant's thigh and flipped them over, slamming him onto the mat. "You are Deputy Director because you are capable. You are a backbone within this place - you are going to be Fury's righthand man. He has to turn to you. You have more power than you realize. You are Deputy Director because you know your shit." He fell back, releasing him. Grant sat up, hands pressed to the mat between his knees. "So you're not moving up. Who cares? You're not moving down, and that's one of the most important things about this whole ordeal. And there's always the next chance! This isn't the only time you could become Director."

"I hope the guy gets shot," he mumbled.

"O-kay, great mindset!" He hauled himself to his feet, and held a hand down to Grant. He assured, "You're doing great, kiddo. In your work, in life." He shrugged. "Not so much in fighting me - fuck!"

Bucky tumbled back onto the mat, his legs tangled with one of Grant's, who grinned maniacally at him. "You got cocky."

He huffed and let his head fall back onto the mat again. "Yeah. Um, screw you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter packs a ton of punches, so prepare yourself. 2000 is almost done! I mainly have some gaps to fill and a little bit of editing to do, so it should be out by the end of the weekend or this week. Two RTWOD chapters in one week? UNHEARD OF!


	7. 2000

**| 2001 |**

" _I want a job. Give me a job. I'll take anything_."

Bucky barely remembered saying that to Fury. He vaguely remembered running through New York that now had treacherous gaps in her skyline, using his enhanced hearing to track down bodies buried under rubble. He did remember not being able to stop coughing, breathing in too much of the sediment as he heaved heavy boulders out of the way or off of beings. White dust streaked his hair, smothered his skin, covered his old leather jacket and ripped-up jeans, caked his age-worn combat boots that he had donned when he kicked the Winter Soldier in the stomach - they were old, out-dated, and he knew that. But as long as they remained in one piece, he would wear them.

Azzano was a nightmare, but his time there was nothing compared to this. That was fear and never-ending pain. This was confusion and dread for what was going to come next.

Bucky stared at the seemingly gaping hole in the skyline through his fire-escape window, wondering how the day had gone so horrible so quickly. A random agent - Clint "we're best friends now" Barton - had led him to an apartment, gave him a key, a bundle of papers, and a little black box that apparently held a comm; and just...left. Walked away as soon as he was done, bone weary and scared out of his mind. Bucky understood, and let him.

The apartment was furnished, and he had immediately fallen down onto the horribly ugly olive green couch. He was still there, shifting through the papers. He finally decided to crack open the mock jewelry box, pick out the comm and fit it into his right ear. "This thing on?" he asked - his voice came out as a cracking rasp, damaged from the dust and all the yelling he had done.

"Nice of you to join me, Barnes," Nick Fury exclaimed, sarcastically whimsical. "Did Agent Barton treat you well?"

"What do you want, asshole?" He had dealt with Fury very few times since he had been named Director - the first time to threaten him and curse him out for taking his son's birthright, to swear that one day he would come back to S.H.I.E.L.D and make his work life a living hell.

"I'm taking a chance with you. You know I don't like you -"

"The feeling's mutual," he hummed - he found that he couldn't hum. The tingling sensation in his throat caused a scraping cough.

"But," Fury said once he was over the involuntary fit, "you came out of the woodwork today. Reporters got their cameras on you, people saw that despite what people of the past had done for you, you're still here for them. I want to take advantage of that."

Bucky's mind went blank. He was confused - tired. He needed to gulp down a gallon of water and then sleep for a week.

"You will report to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s New York base on Friday at six AM. The Deputy is on his way with some paperwork. We'll talk more when I see you."

The line went staticky and Bucky winced, moving to pull the device from his ear. He placed it on the coffee table in front of him (groaning as he moved his spine and hips, having been in one position for too long after moving for hours on end) and slammed the side of his fist down, crushing it to tiny pieces.

He wasn't sure how long it was before the door was knocked on, and then creaked as it opened. Footsteps came closer, and the couch dipped beside him. Grant tried to smile at him, but it shook and he immediately let it drop. Tears were heavy in his eyes, creating tracks in the smeared dust on his face.

Bucky was too tired to play the Dad Act, so he just reached out with an exhausted, cut-up hand and took Grant's, equally tired and shredded, and held it; let him know that he was there.

"She's dead," he whispered, voice hoarse and - defeated. "Brooke's dead."

Bucky sat up and tugged him in - cradled his grown-up son in his arms, tucked his chin over Grant's head and just held him as he broke down into pieces - like the towers. Like the lives of so many people. Like everything in Bucky's life. He held his son as he whined about having to tell their kids, about having to work out a new way of life. His fists were wound in Bucky's dirty shirt, hard enough to rip - and Bucky was sure that it had, in spots. But he didn't make a move to stop him. He understood. Better than anyone could ever comprehend.

They fell asleep like that; like Grant was seven years old and dealing with grueling nightmares, and Bucky was sleeping on the couch and was the closest parent he could get to. When their appearances matched who they were - _i_ _t made Bucky sick that Grant looked older than him, had for years_.

Bucky held him until he woke up in the afternoon of the next day. He maneuvered his way out from under him, jogged to an unaffected part of the city to get breakfast - nay, lunch, and got back before he had woken up. _He_ _had opted to walk back to the apartment, his joints still sore as could be. He took the time to reply to some missed calls. Chrys and West, Dominic, Peggy, Dugan, Falsworth, Bianca and Tony, and more that he could easily respond to at a later time. He took the important ones - assured his daughters that he and Grant were okay, that their brother had news for them._

_"Who did he lose?" Peggy murmured, a breath stuck in her throat._

_"Brooke," he sighed. "Peg,_ _I_ _never wanted him to have to go through this."_

_"He's strong. He'll find a way_ _through_ _it, whether it's spending more time with the kids or burying himself in work. He always_ _finds_ _a way. He learned that from you."_

He fit his new key into the apartment door. He set the food on the kitchen counter before walking back over to his kid, who was still dead asleep on the couch. He set his hand back on his shoulder and gently shook him. "G. We have to eat. Wake up."

A high whine escaped him, and Bucky's heart broke even further.

"We have to eat, or we're gonna bottom out. Come on, you have to eat _something_. I got enough for an army, don't make me waste it."

It took a lot of persuation - and some physical force - to convince Grant to push himself up off the couch. Bucky ate his fill, slow and steady. Grant moved at a snail's pace, looking like each bite caused him considerable pain. When Bucky was sure that he would continue eating, he stepped away to shower. He found a couple towels folded in the linen closet behind the door. He rubbed his skin raw with a washcloth, scratched his scalp until he was sure he was bleeding in a few spots. He washed until the water ran clear down the drain.

The mirror had fogged up from the steam. He swiped his hand through it, and was startled by his sunken eyes. The dark circles looked like smears of purple paint. His skin was flushed from the hot water. He looked haunted, weary - tired. Bucky had known that he's been tired for years. Before the ice, before the war. He'd been tired since he had to drop out of high school and give up his dream of following a career in math or the sciences. He'd been tired since Sarah died, leaving Steve completely alone all but for Bucky. He was tired when he had been given the news about Pearl Harbor, when he came down with pneumonia in Azzano and was just waiting to drown from the cold fluid in his lungs, when he was dragged away from Dugan and Gabe kicking and screaming, swearing at the gun pointed at his head. Even though he no longer carried the shield - hadn't for decades - he still felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. The expectations everybody had of him. They wore him down into nothing but skin and bone, nothing but a big ball of pissed off and shaking anxieties.

His duffel bag was sitting in front of the sink beneath the mirror. He found a change of clothes, tied his damp hair back with the wet ponytail holder on his wrist, and left the solitary to provide comfort to his son. Because Grant came before himself. Always had, always would.

"I called Chrys," Grant whispered, fresh tears tracing the curves of his face.

"I did, too. When I got food." He sat down with a heavy sigh. "What the hell happened?"

"Um," he waved his hand around the apartment, redirecting himself as he tried to find something. "...They're in the living room," he whispered, and let his hand fall defeatedly. "To put simply, four American planes - al-Qaeda took over some planes and flew two into the Twin Towers. The third crashed into the Pentagram. The fourth didn't reach DC, it crashed in Pennsylvania. All the passengers died."

Bucky lowered his face into his hands. His voice was muffled by his palms; "Has Bush addressed it?"

"Standing on top of a pile of debris, in jeans." He huffed, letting his shoulders fall even further down. "And there have already been discriminations against Muslim Americans."

He raised his head. "Great," he chimed, sarcasm dripping from his tired voice. " _Ugh_. I hate people."

"You talked to Fury?"

"Yeah. He wants me to go to HQ on Friday."

"You did tell him you wanted a job. He's taking you for long term."

He scoffed, reaching up and raking his fingers through his damp hair. "I don't want to work for S.H.I.E.L.D.."

"It's changed, since Mom left," he murmured. He sat up straighter, all of a sudden, and shook his head. "I'll get you your badge and clearance card, everything you need, within the next few days. I brought what we had on the attacks, stuff about the apartment, some people you can reach out to...I don't know what else to do."

He glared down at the table top. "I think it's going to be like that for a little bit, kiddo."

"Fury got ahold of me while you were in the bathroom," he shoved out, speaking faster than usual as if he had to get it out before he could talk himself out of it. "He's been in talks with the Bush Administration and the Security Council. There is a possibility that Bush will declare a War on Terror. Storm Afghanistan and destroy terrorism once and for all...They want you on the front lines."

"What?" he exclaimed. "I didn't even serve in Korea or Vietnam! They want me - no! No." He couldn't work the front lines. He couldn't - he wouldn't - _he can't go back there_.

Grant nodded, slow and sad. "The Administration believes that it will boost American morale. Seeing that you've come out of hiding to fight the big fight."

That made everything make sense. Why Fury wanted him for long term. He just wanted to ship him off. Bucky sighed, pushing himself off his barstool. "Less than a tour. I'll stay until the end of January - that's five months. It's that or nothing."

**| 2002 |**

Bucky blindly pressed UNLOCK on the buzzer, waddling around with Alpine dawdling between his calves. He'd found her meowing at his door only last month, barely a week after he had come back from the Middle East. He had taken her inside, fed her and washed the dirt out of her white fur. In the process, he'd gotten attached. He wasn't ashamed, though his kids made fun of him for it. He named her Alpine, after the snowy mountains in his nightmares, turning their deadliness into something akin to positivity. She meowed up at him, shuffling too and fro between his legs.

The door creaked open behind him, and he gave up on Alpine and the notebook in his room, backtracking through the hallway. When he turned around, he was face-to-face with a tearful, angry-looking Bee. A glittery red gift bag was hooked in her fingers, dangling beside her leg.

Bucky treaded carefully; "What happened?"

Apparently, even that, as simple as it was, wasn't the right thing to say. She threw the red bag on his ugly green couch, yelling, "Tony Stark fucking happened!"

She and Tony had been dating for an entire decade - which, after hearing horror stories from his time at MIT from Rhodes, Bucky was surprised it kept on lasting so long. Maybe it was Grant's constant threats, that was highly possible - The two lived in Malibu, Bee worked closely with Stark Industries (she was wicked smart, enough that she had graduated high school two years early and got her Masters in engineering and mathematics.) Bucky had been shocked when they had shown up at Rebecca's funeral together, but hadn't been electrified to the core like Grant. The two were only born a year apart, had grown up together. Bucky remembered them causing trouble in Hank Pym's office, running through the halls, Bee watching over Tony's shoulder in wonder as he tore apart every day items to create new mechanisms. They had been close, often shoved together to keep each other company.

"What did he do?" he asked, pulling a stool out from underneath the bar that separated his living room and kitchen. They were shiny and plastic. Not his style.

She rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes, grounding away her tears. It didn't do much, just provided a fresh wave. Drops fell down her cheeks. Pushing her dark hair off her face and locking her thin fingers around the back of her neck, she choked out, "He cheated. The day before Valentine's Day. He kept saying that this model was throwing herself at him, she just had as I walked in, but -" She fell heavily onto one of the couch cushions, sniffling loudly in the silent room. "I don't know what to do."

Bucky was in the same boat. He wasn't sure why, but there was a disconnection between him and his youngest. He was never really sure of how to talk to her. Peggy had kept her from him after the divorce, making it so he had only been able to see Chrys (after she turned eighteen) and Grant. He hadn't watched her grow up, hadn't seen her personality evolve. No matter what the reason - excuse - was, Bucky wasn't sure of what to be around her. She wanted her dad, he knew that - but for some reason he just couldn't figure out how to act. Because he hadn't been able to do any of it. He left when she was seven, when she was still hanging on her mother's side. He loved her, of course he did - had since Peggy told him she was pregnant. He just didn't know how to express it to her. They were still rebuilding their relationship, the one that had crashed and burned after the drawings came uncovered.

He stood up and walked over to the couch. He sat down on the arm, beside her, and tucked a dark strand of hair behind her ear. "I mean, I could kill him if you want me to," he said, dryly.

She laughed and sniffled. As she wiped at her eyes, she joked, "Think Grant would beat you to him."

He smiled, but only for a few moments. He looked down at the discarded, now-disformed Valentine's Day gift bag on his couch. "What's all in there?"

She sighed and flung out a hand to grab the bag and pull it closer. She opened it and rifled through, beginning to list everything out; "Chocolates - you like caramel?"

" _Love_ caramel."

She handed the plastic wrapped box over to him. She went on as he peeled the plastic off. "A card. Fake rose. Cookie tin." She huffed. "Those are my favorite cookies."

He balled up and plastic and stuffed it in the pocket of his sweatpants, not trusting Alpine with the wrapping. "White chip macadamia, right?"

"Yeah." She glanced up and said, in disbelief, "I mentioned that to you _once_."

"One - perfect memory," he explained, pushing himself off his perch. He walked to the kitchen. Alpine was curled up on the little rug on the floor in front of the sink, most likely waiting to get fed. "Thank the serum for that. Two - they're also my favorite." He reached up and pulled the gigantic Tupperware off the top of the fridge. As he emerged from the kitchen, he pulled the lid off. The smell of sugar and chocolate wafted out, hitting him in the face. "Clint made me cookies. Some of them have heart sprinkles." Bianca scooted over on the couch, making room for him. He asked, dropping down into the given spot, "Interested?"

She smiled - a real one, clearly. It reached her eyes. "I will gladly eat your cookies. Tell Clint I said thanks." She pulled out a triple chocolate chip cookie and dug in. She immediately groaned and rolled her eyes. Mouth full, she complimented, "Oh my god. _Definitely_ tell him 'thank you.'"

"Laura's making Clint learn how to make cookies, because she doesn't want to be the mom that only makes cookies. That's gonna be his job."

"You never learned how to make cookies," she poked fun. "Neither did Mom."

"No," he agreed. Voice deadly serious, he told her, "But I slice up a _mean_ cheese and crackers."

**| 2004 |**

He started his morning with coffee, not tea.

S.H.I.E.L.D. provided a place in his life for structure - he woke up at the asscrack of dawn, went on a brief run most mornings, got a shower, ate whatever he could find and drank his coffee, before he got on the move to HQ. He had Fridays and the weekend off, had two given sick days per month, beyond whatever leave they gave you when you had an injury.

It wasn't a bad routine. Compared to having nowhere to go, even if he didn't want to work for the agency, it wasn't horrible.

Bucky briskly walked through S.H.I.E.LD.'s New York headquarters, on his way to meet Agents May and Coulson for a mission - settle the turbulence, escort, clean up the edges, get out. Not too hard, but not completely easy either.

"Dad!" Grant's voice bellowed through the hall; Bucky immediately whirled around, seeing his son and so-called best friend running after him.

"Bucky!" Clint gasped when he stumbled to a halt in front of him. Grant eased his speed, having a much cleaner stop than the Level Seven agent. "We...Oh god." Clint leaned over himself, setting the heels of his hands above his knees as he gulped in air.

"You're younger than me, Clint, you're fine," Grant huffed, his breathing somewhat labored, but not dramatically huffing and puffing like the other agent was. Turning his eyes to his father, he explained, "We ran three floors looking for you."

Clint waved him off, and rightened himself again. "Okay, rundown; I was sent to kill a Black Widow. She's incredibly skilled, and she'd be an important asset for S.H.I.E.L.D. to have. I told her about what I do, and she wants to work for us."

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. He knew what the Black Widow Ops Program was - Peggy had dealings with it before he was brought out of the ice. Junior Juniper had died at a Black Widow's hand. "Okay...? Why did you race to find me?"

"We want you to debrief her," Grant explained. He opened his mouth to go on, but Bucky interrupted;

"Why the hell do you want me to talk to her? I have a mission rendezvous to get to. Besides, I'm not qualified to -"

"She told me she didn't choose to be there," Clint explained. "Her captivity made her into this. We figured you could...relate." He said the last word quietly, and Bucky's left eye twitched.

He sighed, and reminded them, "I have a mission."

"I'll call May and tell her to hold off for a few," Grant piped up. "She's really scared, and she's being honest when she says she wants to do better in the world. She told us that she wants to wipe the red from her ledger. She now has another option, and she's choosing _good._ "

"Okay," he agreed. He hadn't needed much persuation. But since he had come back to S.H.I.E.L.D., he did his best to follow orders - be where he was supposed to be, only speak out if he thought he needed to. He had once vowed to make Fury's worklife a living hell, but he didn't want to be kicked out. He didn't want to go back into hiding, making a living out of odd jobs and grueling farm work. His first meeting with Fury after 9/11 had been a lot of yelling, but they had just barely reached a consensus.

He let them lead him to an upper level, where he was directed to one of the interrogation rooms. There was space between every two side-by-side doors - one held the "prisoner," and the other would be observation, a pane of one-way glass connecting them. As they had walked, Clint gave him the details of his mission; Budapest, assassination, third party involved, escape together.

Before he went inside, Grant gave him the rundown; "Talk to her about her past. Get her basic information. Anything you don't get, I will."

The Black Widow turned her head toward him when he emerged from behind the door. He was a little taken aback by the uniform - a skintight black bodysuit, with a little blood red hourglass on the utility belt buckle. Her hair shared the likeness of pomegranate seeds, while her eyes reflected the fabled Emerald City but held the fierce nature of a forest - ready to burn.

Bucky introduced himself as he sat down in the metal chair on the other side of the table, placing his elbows on top; "Hi. My name is James Barnes. And you -?"

"Sergeant Barnes?" she breathed, voice alive with a terrified wonder that Bucky did not quite understand.

He leaned gorward further, peering across the table with narrowed eyes. "How do you know who I am?"

"You were supposed to be Arnim Zola's Winter Soldier. But you were taken from him, and HYDRA found someone else." She took a breath, steadying her nerves. "The serum he gave you was also given to the girls in the Black Widow Ops Program."

"I know of the program from a colleague...Female assassins, kidnapped and trained at an incredibly young age." He glanced down at her chained-up wrists. "Attached to your bed with handcuffs." He immediately redirected the conversation back to what intrigued - worried - him most. "Can you tell me more about the serum?"

The corner of her mouth flickered up, a little bit like a dying flame that was desperate to stay alive. "There were twenty four Black Widows. By the time they introduced the serum, we were down to a quarter. They said that only the best of us could go to the next stage."

Something harsh sat in her eyes, and it brought Bucky to ask, "How long have you been alive?"

She didn't seem surprised by the question. They both knew that nothing would keep him from asking it. Softly; "I was born in nineteen twenty eight. I was given the serum a year before your war ended. The Black Widows acted as private resistance fighters toward the Nazis, after the Soviet Union became an Allied power."

He leaned back, slowly nodding his head. He attempted to group together the information he had to get, but it was no use. There was so much. What department did she serve with? She knew the background of the Winter Soldier Projects? He was meant to be the Soldier? The thought of being forced into that made him want to throw up. Was the current Winter Soldier held captive, how Bucky had been? How old was he? He could've been just a kid, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"This is all very close to you, isn't it?" the Black Widow guessed. "Captain America has always been an enemy of HYDRA and the Soviets. Against dictators and fascists."

Bucky didn't want to confirm that, not while wind from so long ago howled in his ears. Zola had plans for him, and he didn't even know it. Had Zola mentioned it while he was on the table? He remembered a lot from his time as Zola's rat, but not all of it. He didn't remember what Zola used to cut the soles of his feet, because all he had known was pain. He remembered a machine closing in around his skull, pressing against his cheeks and forehead, but he couldn't remember what it did. Events were scrambled, tangled around each other. Bucky didn't mind not remembering all of it, but at times like this, when he got more information than he bargained for, it would have been nice to know for sure.

"I'd really like to work with S.H.I.E.L.D.," she confessed when he failed to speak, twiddling her fingers back and forth, clasping and unclasping her hands. "Clint - Agent Barton told me all the good they do." She cocked her head. "And he told me about you - he called you Bucky - That you would vouch for me alongside him."

He groaned, quietly, in the very back of his throat. "He knows better than to make promises on my behalf." He pushed himself forward again, setting his elbows back on the table. "What's your name?"

"Natalia Alianovna Romanova." She pursed her pink lips for a moment. "I figure I'll have to make a new identity. There are many people hunting me down."

He nodded his head in confirmation. "I'll do my best to get Fury to listen. The Director and I don't exactly get along, but the Deputy Director is already on your side. I doubt I'll have to do anything to convince him to talk to Fury."

The ghost of a smile made her lips twitch. "Why?"

He grinned at her. "He's my son. I have a right to all the embarrassing things in his life." His smile quickly fell, and he fixed a reassuring look on his face. "But I doubt that I'll have to pull anything out of hiding. He's a good man, and he knows how to talk to Fury. You should be safe here. If not, we wouldn't throw you out for the dogs. We would put you in some sort of Witness Protection. Fix you up someplace safe."

She turned her head down toward her hands. Her eyes had taken on a glassy demeanor. She said under her breath, "Thank you, Captain."

"It's no problem. You deserve it." He pushed himself up, and her head whipped up so she could watch him. "I'll hold off on the deeper questioning. That's someone else's problem. I have a mission to get to. Clint and Deputy Director Grant Barnes will keep you company, and will protect you. I'll be back by the end of the day, and I'll check in. Does that sound good?"

She inclined her head. "Yes. I..." her voice died, and she averted her gaze. "Thank you. Really."

He shot her one last promising smile. "It's my pleasure, Nat." With that, he left the room, easing the metal door shut behind him.

< | >

Bucky stepped out of the facility showers, appreciative of the lack of a layer of dust and grime on his skin. His suit was ruined - he refused to pay the cleaning bill, he was just going to switch it out and tell Fury is was shredded (because it was, beyond the mud). He rubbed a S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued towel against his hair as he made his way over to the bench holding his open duffel bag. A new set of clothes - a _dry_ set of clothes, thank god - was waiting for him, room-temperature (warm compared to the suit) and inviting.

He was seated, pulling on his shoes, when he felt a gaze burning his skin. He glanced up, and was surprised to see Nat; with her shoulder leaned against the row of lockers, arms crossed over her chest, her jaw working a piece of fruity gum - he could smell the artificial watermelon and kiwi flavoring. Something Clint almost always carried. She studied him with hard green eyes, little twin emeralds, nothing shifting in her expression. She was clearly sizing him up, and he had no problem with it.

As he stood and picked up his sweatshirt - it had the rainbow image of Steve from the Star Spangled Dancer protest flier. Him owning it was Chrys's doing, but not something Bucky hadn't seen before - she said, carefully, "I have a proposal for you."

He quirked a brow, looking up from his bag. "Oh? And what's that?"

She pushed herself off the lockers, and Bucky raised himself up to his full height as she came closer. "I've been through a lot," she started to explain, her tone calculating and short. "I want to be able to say that my body is mine. I get to decide what is done with it."

He wasn't quite sure where this was going. "Okay. That's understandable. What do I have to do with that?"

"Fury wants to put a tracker in my neck." It was clearly a stall, but also important.

He frowned. "Of course he does. I figure you were accepted into the ranks?"

"I was. But he doesn't trust me with much clearance. Which is completely understandable. I plan to prove myself..." She cocked her head to the side, a glint in her eyes. "You seem trustworthy, James. I value trust. It had no place in my life before, and I want it to have a place now. I want to be able to trust you. Should I?"

"Yes. You should. I told you that you would be safe. I'll tell Grant to talk to Fury about the tracker. If Clint didn't need one when he came here, you don't either."

She smirked, but it softened after a few moments. She took another few steps toward him, placing herself right in front of him. She placed her fingertips on the inside of each forearm and pulled her skin against his, ghosting over the twists and turns of his veins and muscle until she reached the heels of his hands. She never broke eye contact with him, and he made the decision that he wouldn't, either. She then placed her hands on his chest, and repeated the ritual - fingertips brushing over the curves of muscle and skin, until they reached the waistband of his fleece-lined sweats.

Suddenly, it clicked into place. She wanted to own herself. She wanted to be able to make the decisions that had been made for her in the past. Her body didn't belong to anybody but her, and she would decide what she did with it, even if it meant covering up what had been done to it in the past.

Seeing the understanding flash across his face, she smiled again, briefly. When it smoothed out, she raised her hands and settled her palms against his jaw, her fingertips in his hair. She said, in a tone that indicated a promise, "You can't hurt me. Even if you could, I wouldn't let you. We're on equal playing field, Barnes."

He chose to avoid answering, since she gave him the option to - she was well aware of that. "I was always so scared I was going to hurt people. Still am." He shook his head slightly inside her gentle hold. "Bones are like styrofoam."

"They're barely an issue." She inhaled sharply. "We don't have to. Not if you don't want to. Give me the word, and I'll back off. But I'd like us to be close. You're a good man, James. No matter whatever you may think."

It was a split-second decision. Nothing was wrong with that. He smiled, assuring her. "Call me Bucky."

She grinned, and it was like the first deep inhale after being submerged in deep water. She gestured to his duffel bag, that had the sweatshirt laying haphazardly overtop the opening. "Are you going to put on your sweater? You're moving a little slow."

He looked down at Steve's wrinkled, colorful face; was flooded with guilt he knew he shouldn't have been feeling. Steve was dead. Everything they had, it was either nonexistent or unwillingly shared with the world. He had already been with another person since the war. Peggy had been...he still wasn't sure, despite the decades he had spent contemplating, the nights he had spent staring at full liquor bottles and just wondered how everything they built had gone to hell; despite their rebuilt friendship and heartfelt apologies. He shouldn't feel guilty for being with someone. Someone who was beautiful and honest and wanted to change their ways.

He lifted the sweatshirt and pulled a wrinkled T-shirt out from the very bottom of the bag. He said, pulling on the shirt, "I'm fine. Are you?"

She took his hand with both of hers, squeezing his palm. She assured, "I'm perfect."

That was how he ended up in his apartment; on his bed, his fingers entwined with hers, her thighs on either side of his hips.

**| 2006 |**

Bucky startled awake, a gasp on his dry lips. He peeled his face off the paperwork he had fallen asleep on, letting out a groan as his back protested after being stuck in a weird position, and running a hand over his face.

What? _Jesus, wake up, Barnes. You're not being woken up_ _for school or work._

Someone was knocking on his front door.

Bucky pulled himself off the couch, leaving the paperwork in its mess on the coffee table. He stumbled through the hall to the door, narrowly avoiding Alpine when she got underfoot. He set one hand on the knob and the other on the doorframe, to steady himself, before twisting his wrist and pulling open the door.

Nat sighed in relief. "Thank god. You usually sleep like a rock." She leaned her clammy forehead against the outside door frame, pain written in every line of her unnaturally pale face. She pressed one hand to her side, just above the waistline of her black jeans - her hair was black, too. She was coming back from something that had needed an undercover operative - and blood seeped through her fingers.

"Why didn't you report to S.H.I.E.L.D.?" was the first thing his sleep-drugged brain thought to ask.

She huffed, then winced. "Can you help or not?"

Nat would only let Clint or Bucky near her, he knew that. Clint was with his wife and son, out of action for the time being. He had taken a metal pipe through the stomach, had gone through tons of medical procedures, and was now in whatever he could call home. If it was a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, that was none of Bucky's business, even if two year old Cooper did try his best to call him Uncle Bucky.

He gently pulled her into his apartment, kicking the door shut behind him as he ushered her to the living room. He only had to nudge Alpine out of the way once; she got the message to back off, retreating to the bedroom. He helped Nat ease down into the corner of the second couch before he pulled his first aid kit from under the bathroom sink and quickly mixed up a protein shake in the kitchen.

He brought both items back to the living room, setting the protein shake down in an open space on the coffee table before he sat down on the cushion beside her, one leg folded underneath him in a half-criss-crossed position. He let the kit fall down on the floor beside his foot.

"What happened?" he asked, more awake. He tugged her forward so she was sitting up, and helped her shrug off the jacket. He pulled it out from behind her and she fell back again.

As she started to recount the tale, Bucky lifted her soaked shirt up off the wound. "I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. My tires were shot out near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out, shot a wire, but the Winter Soldier..." Bucky's ears perked, and he glanced up in interest. "I was covering my engineer. He shot him straight through me."

It had been years since he last heard that name. The assassin might as well have been dead, that's what he had been thinking, because what else could he think? "The Winter Soldier?"

"Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists. He's credited with over two dozen kills in the last forty years -"

"I know, I know. I've fought him, twice." He inspected the wound again, reaching down and pulling the little plastic basket he called a first aid kit into his lap. "He shot straight through you, so I'm assuming the bullet's out."

She didn't move. She murmured, practically under her breath, "The engineer is dead. I failed my mission."

He reached out with his left hand, turning her head with his palm against her cheek. "You didn't fail a thing," he promised. "Don't think like that."

"I don't know why he left me alive." Her voice shook, coming out uneven and off-pitch. "No survivors. No witnesses. He told me that the next time he saw me, he would kill me."

His brows drew in. "You _knew_ him?"

"He made me into this-this monster! Of course I know him, he trained us, he killed us."

As she rambled on, Bucky broke eye contact and got to dressing the bullet wound - he had to get the shirt off her, it kept getting in his way. No matter what, it was beyond saving - disinfect with rubbing alcohol, apply salve, secure bandage.

She was crying as he coaxed her to lay over the arm of the couch so he could get to the other side of the wound. She was babbling unintelligibly, going on and on about how cruel the Red Room was to everyone in it, even the lent-out Winter Soldier, whom HYDRA occasionally let the Soviets borrow. Bucky let her. He had heard most of it before, but he still paid attention - it was one of the things he promised her he would always do. Her words meant something to him, probably more than they should.

Once her wounds were dealt with, Bucky stood. He took Nat by the elbows and pulled her up onto her weak legs and toward the hallway, leaving the first aid and the empty glass behind. She started to protest the movement, but he quickly explained, "We're going to bed. You were going to sleep anyways, might as well do it somewhere comfortable."

"But the blood -"

"Bleach really is handy, isn't it?" They crossed the threshold of the room familiar to the both of them. He carefully eased her down on the left side of the bed, then went around to lay on the right. He was immediately in her space again, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. "You're safe with me. He can't find you here. Sleep, _rozochka._ _"_

Nat rolled into the curve of his body, placing her forehead on his chest, her head nestled under his chin. Bucky sighed, melting into the unnatural warmth of her body and soft pillows. He barely noticed Alpine crawling over him and folding herself into a ball on his hip.

**| 2007 |**

Alpine chirped and jumped off the coffee table, her rest having been disturbed when he pulled the corner of the notepad out from under her. She landed on Clint's lap, who sat on the couch on the other side of the table, its back facing the fire escape window. After a year of living in the apartment S.H.I.E.L.D. had given him, he made an attempt to put other furniture in it. A squishy blue couch joined the ugly green lump. He bought his own towels, a new beadspread. He got some of his things from the house he and Peggy had moved into while she was pregnant with Chrys. Chrys owned the house with her husband West now, and kept a lot of the old family items either on display or packed up in the basement. His apartment was now decorated with pictures of he and Peggy and his kids, delicate looseleaf drawings Steve had done pinned in frames. He got some bookshelves for his old, destroyed books.

That apartment was never going to be home. Home was in Brooklyn, gutted out in the nineties and made into an ice cream shop. But he could do what he could to feel comfortable.

Clint scratched at Alpine's cheeks, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. He spoke baby-talk to her under his breath, like he always did. Beside the scene, Nat rolled her eyes and kept on reading _All Quiet On The Western Fron_ t. Lucky, Clint's fluffy golden retriever, was curled up on the scratchy green cushion beside Bucky, tail wrapped around his thigh.

They were having an easy day in. Just basking in familiar company. Bucky and Clint had made Nat watch Finding Nemo that morning, they ate popcorn and cookies for breakfast, drinking hot chocolate and helping themselves to whatever sounded good in the kitchen. The animals were warm, rivaling the snow that fell outside in the ever-busy New York street.

They were going to have to spend Christmas with their families. Like they had made into a tradition since she came to S.H.I.E.L.D., Bucky brought Nat to his family's get together. She had been accepted the second she walked through the door, from the first year and on.

Lucky raised his head, blinking tiredly, when Bucky's phone rang and vibrated against the coffee table. He leaned forward and pulled it into his palm, leaning back again as he answered.

"Dad!" Grant gasped before Bucky could even greet him. "Are you free? Because you have to be free for this, you're going to be free for this."

"What's going on?"

"I did it," he gasped, sounding awestruck but terrified. "The Winter Soldier - I found _everything_. I don't have a lot of time, and I need your undivided attention."

Bucky tossed the pad of paper back onto the coffee table. It landed with a satisfying _plop_. "You have me for whatever you need."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't what we thought it was. Alexander Pierce isn't on our side, never has been."

"The Secretary isn't - what the hell is happening? Where are you?"

"There's hundreds of feet of data banks. HYDRA kept Zola's brain! He talked to me, and I feel gross - Dad, Steve's at the center of it. What they were trying to do to you at Azzano -" A gunshot rang on the other end, the crack of bone and the squelch of skin and blood, followed by a choked breath.

Bucky's heart froze. His spine went cold, his mind clouded over. "Grant." Lucky's wet nose weaseled its way under his elbow, pushing his arm up and allowing the golden retriever to snuggle even closer. "Grant, c'mon kiddo, you gotta answer me."

His lungs burst when Grant scraped out, "A folder..." He gagged and gasped. "...on my desk, labelled as yours. Everything I found -" Another gunshot exploded, even closer, and Bucky flinched.

There was a peaceful sigh, and then nothing. When Bucky was sure it was always going to be nothing, he swore and threw his phone onto the cushion beside him. He immediately doubled over on himself, threading his hands into his hair.

"Come on, Buck - up and at 'em." Clint was trying to pull him up off the couch, and Bucky stood up. Nat handed him his phone, which was still active in the call with ID Grant Barnes. Bucky went on autopilot. He hung up the call, grabbed his shoes and coat as he fumbled his phone, and ran out the door with Nat behind him.

"What's up, Fake Dad?" Tony answered - and Bucky had no control over the sob that tore from his throat. All he heard was 'Dad.' "Whoa, whoa, whoa - what the hell happened?"

"Grant's dead," he choked out, barely intelligible. That was his reality now; no son. Where he was now, it felt like he had always had a son, even when he was young and playing with his nephew while he and Steve were babysitting. Without Grant, he wasn't heartbroken ( _shattered to millions of shards, all pushing and prodding into the softness inside him_ ), not like he was without Steve. A part of him was ripped from his chest. There was an ugly hole in him, empty and aching, where his love for his son now felt like it had no purpose. Grant Barnes, a dead man, his son - his oldest, who had started the tradition of Bucky sitting with his children their first night home, telling them everything they needed to know about how their lives would be led. The kid that would eat cheese just as a block; give even his grandmother the Great Barnes Poker Face, the creator of it, and win the standoff. He had watched him grow up into a strong man, despite everything the world threw at their family. He created his own name for himself, almost reached the biggest height he could go. He was the embodiment of carpe diem, seizing what was his and only his, doing everything in his power to do what was right.

"- Bucky, I need you to _breathe_. Jesus, _I_ need to breathe."

He didn't realize that he was being suffocated by his own sobs. He tried to inhale, but his breaths just hitched and he let out a high-pitched sound. He hated losing people. He had told Peggy that he didn't want to live while his family and friends were picked off one by one.

Nat tugged the phone from his fingers, and he let her. "Hey, Tony, it's the Widow. We're gonna need a jet. Set for DC." She paused, listening to the other end, the line that Bucky was usually able to hear. He was focused on catching his breath, easing through the hyperventilating hitches. She hummed, thoughtfully. "Okay. I'll let him know." She hung up, and said softly when she turned to face him, "Tony said to call your daughters and ex-wife. Better to get the news from you than a random agent."

He nodded. She corralled him into a cab she had managed to signal. She told the driver where they had to go - HQ - and smoothed her hand down his arm, attempting to gather his attention. Bucky finally forced himself to look up at her, dropping the suit down between his calves.

"You have to say something," she whispered, her eyes wide - he realized she was scared. Of him. She had never been scared of him. Was it his anger, or the raw emotion that oozed from his skin? Was it his silence, or the fact that he was going to do everything in his power to find the killer?

He said, flatly, "I'm going to find the shooter. I'm going to tear them apart limb by limb and watch while they bleed."

After a few seconds of clear shock, Nat found her composure and looked at him with hard eyes. She nodded, the movement sharp and quick. "I'll do what I can to help."

**| 2008 |**

"You got it, Buck," Tony said, stoically, the hint of a guilty smile on his face. He clapped Bucky on his uniform-clad shoulder. "And if you don't, it's just a panic attack in front of fifty people. Recorded. Put on the internet."

He groaned. "You're not making it better."

"I know. Hey, wanna get Thai after?"

"Sure. Whatever'll get you off my back." He set his hands on his black belt, gripping the buckle with tight fingers. It was a position, a stature, he had often assumed in his youth. One of confidence and ease.

He was anything but, now days. Even back then, it had been an act.

"I'm honored to introduce Captain Barnes!"

That was his cue. As he started to walk, a song exploded through the speakers. One he used to make fun of and dance to, just to get on Steve's nerves. If it made him smile, then Bucky had succeeded. And he often did, even if he was stopped with a kiss. Steve knew how to stop him in his tracks.

He inhaled deeply and pushed the dark blue velvet curtains out of his way, emerging onto the open stage. He exhaled as he moved to greet Pepper, hand brushing the small of her back as they leaned in to kiss each other's cheeks.

"What's with the song?" he whispered.

She scoffed. "That would be Tony. I'll handle it." She leaned back and brushed off his shoulder. "Nice suit."

He shrugged, suddenly feeling modest and pinned in the revamped Captain America uniform. Instead of the traditional colors, red, white, and blue, a team at Stark Industries had created something for stealth and presentation - the majority of it was a deep navy blue, much like the color of the reinforced coat he wore back in the war. The rest was white, beyond the accents of brown along the seams. The white star wasn't overbearing and distracting on his chest, instead opting to have a small one on his right shoulder. Bucky didn't feel as ridiculous in it as he had when he was literally a walking-talking American flag. He appreciated that.

Pepper left the stage, leaving him alone. He steeled himself yet again, reaching back over his shoulder to run his fingertips along the rounded rim of the shield as he waited for the song to stop. Once he was left in relative silence, he leaned into the mic and apologized with a small smile; "I'm sorry about that. Tony Stark thinks he's funny. Um..." He didn't prepare cards, despite Pepper's advisement. It was just him and his anxiety, in front of cameras.

 _Cameras_.

When he looked back up from the surface of the podium, he said, clearly, "I've never made a statement. About anything." There was a glaring light in his eyes, too fluorescent, too bright _._ _"_ My life ended during the war. Then I was brought back. It's traumatic, a dead man coming back to life. I was told we won, but it didn't feel like it, because I was still stuck there. But I did what I could. I married Peggy Carter. We had three kids that I love more than the universe. Then the drawings came out, and, I'll be honest, I was terrified. I had buried the evidence, I made a new life for myself, and all of a sudden it was resurfacing. Even more of my life was on display. My wife locked herself in our room, my daughters came home with bloody knuckles and black eyes. My son's car was totalled and his wallet was stolen. My nephew lost a job because of the release, and his wife to sickness because he couldn't pay. My entire family suffered because of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who decided to release those drawings. Not because of the choices I made, as many people like to think. Contrary to popular belief, I did nothing wrong. I fell in love with a man I didn't deserve, and fate took him away because they knew that.

"I didn't have many choices left, so I decided to make the most of the situation. I went off the grid. I went and saw the world, what it's like when it's not at war. Over the years, I've accomplished a lot. I've stood in all five of the Great Lakes, crossed over to Canada and Mexico. I've camped in the Grand Canyon, been on all the rollercoasters I can handle. I've scaled the Golden Gate Bridge, gone snorkeling and hiking in Hawaii. I've seen Europe outside of being a warzone. All of this, I did with a select few items." He held up his hands, raising one finger for each item he named; "A few days worth of clothes. A polaroid camera. Pens and pencils. Travel toiletries. My wallet. Notebooks. The original sketchbook. I turned what had been Steve's, into ours." He let his hands fall, and he reached down into the podium shelf to pull out the old leather-bound journal, stuffed full with cracking polaroids and folded notebook pages. He held it up in the spotlight. "This is my life. Besides the sketches, this holds journal entries, written in every place I've been in. It holds polaroids of those places, and the people I will always hold dear to my heart.

"The world says I went into hiding. No, I didn't. I was in plain sight. The world decided to ignore me because it was the easiest thing to do. I was no longer a military hero with a purple heart and a handful of stars; no, I was less than dirt. Everywhere I went, people felt the need to remind me of that. I got spit at, mocked, but was rarely engaged because everyone knew who would win. But no matter how good I am at it, I've never been a fighter. Before the war, I fought only for the money, or when Steve needed me to. I did it all for him. When I was drafted, part of me wanted to evade it. Street fights turned into bloody front lines, into a prisoner of war labor camp, and I couldn't handle that. After Azzano, where I was turned into the next best thing beside _the_ Captain America, I could have gone home. But the fucking idiot signed up for experimentation when I was gone, so how could I leave him alone? Look what happened when I did.

"What I'm trying to say is; I'm human, too. Always have been, even with the bastardized serum. Always will be. The world has changed, and it's still going. It's been an honor to watch people evolve, to stand beside the ones courageous enough to raise their voices. I fought in Stonewall. Peggy and I were once arrested for stopping firefighters from spraying a group of black people with their truck hoses. I marched in the Harlem race riot. I shook Martin Luther King Jr.'s hand, was a guard during the March on Washington. I grew up in an immigrant family, from Russia and Iran. When I was little, half the battle was surviving the prejudice. I was an AIDS activist, still am. I lifted debris in 9/11, and got a job with S.H.I.E.L.D. again in the process. I was in the invasion of Afghanistan. My son was just recently assassinated, while he was on the phone with me. My life...It's tiring. I'm tired - _god_ , you have no idea how exhausted I am. I don't look like it, but I'm an old man. In eleven years, I'll be a hundred, and I'll still look thirty. Almost everyone I knew is dead.

"I want to be able to live in peace. If I have to fight for it, other countries or even my own, so be it. I've been in exhile for long enough. I'm done living in the shadows. I'm just done. I've been done for too long. If you'll have me, that's great, _thank_ _you_. If not...I'll leave. But I want to be able to find who killed my son. To do that, I need to be something again. I need to have access. And I can't do any of that, in my own rights, without the title. I've done what I can. I need you guys to help me, now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 - This fic needs some light editing in some places. That'll be happening randomly. Just a heads up. There's a couple gaps, I need to fix something in 1970, and I want to give 1990 a little more purpose.
> 
> 2 - I'm truant. That means that I've missed my maximum number of hours at school. At first, it meant I had a couple weeks until a possible court date. No one thinks I'll end up in JDC because I went downhill after my dad passed. That's where most of my hours fell. Now, I have no idea, with all the virus stuff.
> 
> 3 - Corona! Turned my two-day-plus-weekend Spring break into three weeks. Ohio schools closed down to prevent infection, an attempt to keep us from reaching a peak. Despite this, the counties are becoming rapidly infected. Walmart is empty. It's great. My mom bought toilet paper two weeks ago, and we couldn't get any because people are crazy. Also, Ohio may go on a full lockdown by sometime this week.
> 
> 4 - I haven't left my house since Thursday and I am THRIVING.


	8. 2010

**|** **2010 |**

Bucky gently placed the old, framed picture on Peggy's new nightstand. It was partially posed - Grant held baby Bee, Chrys had her arm thrown around Bucky, and Bucky had Peggy pulled close to his side. But it was a good picture of everyone. That's what he outlined in silver.

He was with Peggy because Chrys and Bianca couldn't make it - Bianca with her work for Pym, Chrys with her husband's grieving family. They were the ones who noticed that Peggy's mind was deteriorating, little by little. She forgot dates, events. She hadn't begun to forget people, at least as far as anyone knew.

Bucky fine-tuned the position of the frame, and sat down in the visitor's chair beside Peggy's bed. The nursing home was a good idea, no matter how they felt about it. Peggy didn't like it, Bucky hated it, the girls despised it. But they all knew it was the best thing to happen.

"DC's nice, isn't it?" he asked, lightly. He wasn't really sure of what to say to her. He couldn't do anything to be sure of how lucid she was, if he was actually talking to Peggy at all. And he didn't want to do anything to push her further into forgetfulness.

She hummed. "I prefer home. Running around in the backyard with my brother, getting admonished by my mother for getting dirt on my shoes."

He chuckled. "Sounds great, Peg." As they conversation lulled, he studied the grey of her hair, the locks where it began to turn a wiry, shiny silver. He memorized the twists and turns of her wrinkles.

"What are you looking at?" she wondered, voice alight with a sudden admiration.

"Just...just you," he replied, under his breath. He gave a sad chuckle. "Just as beautiful as the day I met you."

"Well, you look much better now than you did then. You didn't even salute a superior officer."

He snapped his hand to his temple, giving a mocking salute. "Just about seventy years too late, yeah?" They both laughed lightly, trailing off into an uneasy silence. Bucky said, beginning to stand, "I should go." Because he should. He was probably making a mistake, he had no clue. But someone else should be sitting in that seat. Chrys or Bianca, one of the grandkids. She probably wanted someone else, he knew it.

"Jamie...don't." Her wrinkled fingertips brushed the back of his hand, a futile attempt to keep him close. He met her eyes with his own, and was saddened by the desperation in them. She murmured, "Just stay a little longer," as if it were a confession.

He eased himself back down into the hard plastic chair, folding his hand into her frail one. He caressed her knuckles with his thumb.

Voice thick, she asked, "Do you remember our wedding?"

He let his head fall, keeping their palms pressed as he set his forehead against the side of her stomach. Muffled by the guarded position and the cotton blanket, he replied, "Of course I do. You were like a dream, all dolled up in your lace." He remembered the day like it was yesterday, just like he remembered most things. Dum Dum and Falsworth whispered at him as Peggy walked down the aisle, a vision in her off-white long-sleeve lace, her hair dark and curled to a higher perfection than usual, lips a dark raspberry red. They said their vows and kissed in front of friends and family, shoved cake in each other's faces, and went on their honeymoon the next day.

"Things haven't been easy in so, so long," she groaned, mournfully. He felt her grip on his hand tighten a fraction, just for a few moments.

He raised his head again. He found himself standing up, leaning down again to press a soft kiss to her cheek, right beside her nose. He tilted his chin down, gently setting their foreheads together.

**| 2011 |**

Nine glasses. One final man.

All against the world.

Bucky tipped back the first glass. Fire slipped down his throat, leaving an aching, welcomed burn behind. "To Dugan. Dumbass and bastard rolled into one. My brother in everything but blood." He leaned further back into his wooden chair. "You...you were right there beside me, for so much. I'll never forget that." He turned the glass over between his thumb and middle finger, laying the rim against the wooden table.

Lifting the second, he continued; "To Gabe. Watched my six through all the years. Treated my sister better than she deserved. A man I'm proud to call my brother. A Barnes, through and through!" He downed the shot, before setting it back down on the table.

"To Falsworth. Fellow James. A good friend. We didn't know each other when we were assigned the same cell in Azzano, but, through the darkness, you became an ally. You became a really good friend."

"To Morita. You had some hardships, but you worked through them better than others would - better than others did. Honest, compassionate, understanding...the world needs your skills."

"To Dernier. Could barely understand a word you said, but I appreciated you anyways. You were a good friend. A damn good S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Your murderer should've never gotten away with it."

"To Pinky and Sam - I wasn't too sure about you two, when I came back. You reminded me of the rest of us when we first met, young and sure as hell not ready for the horrors of war. But you proved yourself. Became friends I valued just as much as the next. Howling Commandos are you, no matter if you weren't there from the very beginning."

"To Junior. I'm sorry I missed your death. I'm sorry I was too late. Because I never got to say it - hello, my friend."

"To Steve..." He circled his shaking fingertip over the rim of the second to last glass. "Love of my life. Bane of my existence. I could never have done any of this without you. I finished the job because you would've wanted me to. You didn't die for nothing, you didn't save my life for nothing, and I made sure of that."

One more glass sat in front of him. One more name.

"To Bucky." He flicked the crystal. "A fuckup. A sorry excuse for Captain America. The world hasn't seen you since '45. The man that came back when they found the Valkyrie was not you."

As far as he was concerned, the Howling Commandos were dead.

_All of them._

< | >

Bucky cocked his head to the side, a grimace turning the corner of his mouth down. He tapped the toe of his boot against the dirty floor, worked his broad shoulders underneath the tight rope that bound him to a wooden chair - seriously, wooden. Really, you'd think the bad guys would get smarter over the years. At least their stupidity made Bucky's job easier.

"Stop moving and not telling me. You're pulling my rope," Grant Ward hissed over his shoulder.

Bucky frowned. He attempted to look over his shoulder at their bindings, but it was too dark to really see anything beyond random knots of rope. "They seriously linked us together?"

"Makes it harder to run," he grumbled.

"Makes up for the wooden chairs, that's what it does." He started to turn his wrists, fingers reaching up. "I'm about to pull on you." He bent his elbows and reached between the wide-spaced back of the chair. His fingertips danced along the holster/harness wrapped around his shoulders and back, following the line of leather.

"What the hell are you doing?" Ward demanded in a labored voice, tight with pain.

"There's a reason for my madness," he promised, sing-song. He got his fingernails in the grooves of the hilt and tugged the knife free little by little. He arched his back, grunting lightly. Footsteps echoed down the hallway.

"C'mon, man - c'mon."

The knife fell free. He caught it in his palm, the sharp blade pressing into the worn leather of his fingerless gloves. He straightened his back just as the metal door opened.

The man gave him a twisted smile, barely visible to the human eye in the dark room. But Bucky wasn't really human, was he? The man was in baggy slacks and a billowy shirt, coat hanging down past his knees. He didn't know the ringleader's name. All he knew was that he was truly a sick fuck. "It's good to see you, Captain Barnes."

"Really? I'm glad I could make your day, because you ruined mine. I was having a good day before I got kidnapped."

The man in the long coat - Bucky was sure it was a trench coat, but that would've just been so _typical_ \- treaded forward, and slowly squatted down in front of his knees. He dragged his palm up Bucky's kevlar-covered thigh. He fought the disgusted shivers that wanted to take over his body, a low itching sensation underneath his skin that felt like a marching colony of ants. "I think you'll find yourself well taken care of here."

He barely kept his wince contained. "Yeah, sorry, I'm not interested. Besides, I don't think I'm your type?" He shrugged underneath the rope. "I'm not, you know, six years old."

The man's hand left his thigh, a quick blur in the air before his cheek stung. He swore under his breath as the man went on; "I'll come back again later on." He pushed himself to his feet, and nudged his knuckle against Bucky's chin, grinning cruelly right in his face. "I hope you learn some manners by then." He turned away, sliding behind the door for it to fall shut loudly in his wake.

"Ward," Bucky said to get his attention, a hint of hysteria to his voice.

"Yeah?"

"I feel gross." He readjusted the knife in his hand, pressing the sharp side of the blade to a strand of rope. He pushed and sawed as Ward kept up the small talk;

"You think he's got a Captain America kink?"

" _Don't you even start_."

Ward scoffed, amused. He asked, seriously, "What's the plan?"

"Um, we're on Plan B?"

He snapped, "Plan B failed, C was skipped - we didn't think about this!"

The one strand of rope snapped. He started on another. "Obviously we sneak out. Take out the bosses from the inside, I get to cut that motherfucker's hands off -"

Ward cut him off before he could go on. "Yeah, okay." He leaned forward, pulling at their bindings. There was a little more give. The second strand of rope Bucky was sawing at broke, giving them even more.

"One more should do it," he promised, reaching farther out between them for a different strand. He pulled it closer to him, and Ward grunted as their chairs knocked together.

"You think Barton and Romanoff are in?" Ward wondered.

He scoffed. "You think they're not? They both feel really strongly about this. They're both driven." The rope came apart, and both agents retracted from each other. Bucky's chair followed him in his waddle, his ankles still bound around the legs, wrists still connected and the chair stuck under his arms. Now able to move and no longer attached to another human, he flexed his arms and snapped the rope around his wrists from the force. If he could break chains like tearing a piece of paper, rope was butter. He doubled over and cut the rope around his ankles, unlooping himself from the wooden chair legs. When he straightened and turned to Ward, he saw the young agent jump and crash the chair against the cement floor, freeing his ankles.

Bucky lent a hand, grabbing onto one of his forearms to keep him still. He cut the knot binding his hands together, and tugged the discarded rope free and tossed it across the room. Ward started toward the door as Bucky reached behind his back with his one free hand, getting the knife from the other side of his harness. He held it out hilt-first to Ward.

"Ready?" Bucky asked. He opened a pocket on his belt and pulled out the looped-up garrote. He fixed it around his gloved hand, nestled against the skin between his thumb and index finger. He opened another pouch and produced two back-up comms. He stuck one in his ear as he held the other out to Ward, who immediately took it.

"To kill pedophiles?" He placed the device in his right ear. "When am I not? This is _totally_ what I signed up for."

Bucky pulled open the door and darted out into the hall, Ward at his heels. They kept their backs to each other, watching each other's six with their knives raised. He used his free hand to tap at his comm, holding down on the minuscule ON button. Hearing the little beep, he asked, "Barton, Romanoff, do you copy?"

"Nice to see you back online, Barnes," Nat rasped, voice low. He heard a man give a short howl of pain in the background. "Ward with us?"

"We just escaped a hostage situation," Ward updated, voice low, but loud in Bucky's ears. They crept down the silent hall, making an effort to keep their quick steps as close to soundless as possible.

"I'm in," Clint reported.

"Are they hurt?" Bucky asked, rounding around a corner. He came eye to eye with a hostile. The operative aimed his gun at Bucky's head, but he had other ideas - a quick high kick knocked the shotgun out of his hands. He hopped as his leg came down, a quick reposition to punch him in the throat. The operative choked and fell back into the wall. Bucky kept moving forward. Behind him, during Clint's reply, he heard the hostile stop breathing after Ward snapped his neck, quick and simple, and confiscate his gun.

"No more than we knew they'd be." He changed his voice to a lighter tone, one that kids would be more likely to trust; "Hey, guys. I don't work with these guys - I'm with the United States Government. My team is here to save you."

Bucky and Ward made quick work of the halls, as Clint attempted to reassure the captives and Nat made her way into another holding area. At many points, he heard Ward curse in jealousy, mumbling about how he wished he'd gotten Black Widow training, too. ( _Bucky just laughed whenever the Level Six agent brought it up._ )

At some point he heard the slice of choppers in the air, over one line in the comm feed. Figuring it was Clint getting the kids out, he just barreled on.

When he saw the ringleader, he rushed on silent feet - planted his left foot on the wall when he came near, vaulting up in the air. He landed with his right thigh over the man's right shoulder, left knee pressing into one of his kidneys. Wrenching the man into a wall, both of their backs to it, he sank his knife home in his chest, scraping the ribcage and sinking into one of his lungs. The man gasped, a choked, wet sound wafting from his mouth. His knees gave out, and Bucky pushed himself off his shoulders, propelling him down to a collapse even faster. He crouched down in front of the boss, reaching out and fixing his hand around the hilt of the knife stuck in his chest. He twisted, punching a heavy, pained breath out of his wounded chest.

"You know," Bucky began his lecture, "kids are precious. Not in a sell-and-get-money-for-ruining-their-innocence kinda way, no. I mean making blanket forts on lazy weekends and teaching them skills they'll use for the rest of their lives." He pressed the knife in even further. A pained sound echoed through the hall. Bucky feigned guilt, exclaiming in an overly animated tone, "Oh, I'm sorry, did I hurt you? Here, I'll fix it." He tore the blade down his torso, earning an exhausted scream. He watched blood fill his mouth, staining his tongue. "You hurt them. And you're going to pay for that, with a slow, burning death. I'm going to sit here," he dropped back off his haunches, pulling the knife out of where it had made its way to his stomach, "and annoy you until you drown in your own blood."

**| 2012 |**

Bucky glared through the scope of his sniper rifle, the cross aimed at Luchkov's head. His earpiece called Nat's phone, which sat on a cluttered table to the side. It took a few moments for one of the brutes to step aside and answer;

"Ya?"

"Put General Luchkov on the phone, or I'll pull my trigger. I gotta tell ya, my fingers are twitching -"

Through his scope, Bucky saw him hold the phone out to his boss. He snatched it out of the guy's hand, looking frustrated and annoyed.

The man in charge grumbled, "Who the hell is -?"

"You're at hundred-fourteen Solenski Plaza, third floor," he said with a knowing smirk. "We have an F22 exactly eight miles out. Put the woman on the phone or I will blow up the block before you can make the lobby. See that red dot on your chest? I'd like to make your jacket more appealing. I really hate green - I have this ugly-ass couch and it's just ruined the color for me. But red, now that happens to be one of my favorites."

Luchkov glanced down and huffed at the red laser on his chest. He paced the few feet over to Nat, and placed the cell phone on her shoulder beneath her ear. She craned her head to the side and hiked her shoulder up, holding the phone in place.

He returned the laser to Luchkov's chest. "Hey, rozochka."

"Are you kidding?" she snapped, like a venomous snake. "I'm working!"

He shrugged one shoulder. "This kind of takes precedence."

"I'm in the middle of an interrogation and this moron is giving me everything." There was a pause, a little muffle in the background. "Look, you can't pull me out of this right now."

He scraped his teeth along the inside of his bottom lip. "Clint's been compromised."

Silence followed. Then; "Let me put you on hold."

< | >

Bucky made a friend in Bruce Banner. From their immediate connection on the deck of the hellicarrier to his concern when the doctor held Loki's staff, Bucky knew they had something. And if that meant anything, he was going to do what he could.

He just had to get his leg free.

"Bruce -" he said, voice wobbling with deseration as he heard the other man draw in heavy, labored breaths, trying to keep the anger at bay, "- you're going to get out of this. This isn't you, it's the staff. You haven't had a change i -"

He yelled, his shoulders gradually becoming wider, his skin's green hue becoming more pronounced. His hands clawed in the air around his head before he collapsed against the metal floor, body rippling in the change.

" _I swear, on my life_ , you'll get out of this. I will get you to wherever you want to go -"

Banner and the Hulk roared in unison, their body jerking into an upright kneel. Rapidly growing muscle bulged and rippled under the purple button-up as it tore.

Bucky gave a few more kicks to the gigantic pipe crushing his leg at the back of the thigh. Once it was dislodged enough, he rolled over onto his hip, to get off his stomach.

The Hulk stumbled away, and Bucky was able to kick the pipe off of his leg. He scrambled to his feet, inhaling deeply to prepare himself for whatever may come. When the Hulk turned, Bucky saw fire in his eyes. The beast started for him, and Bucky did the only thing he could think to do - turn tail and run. Up the metal stairs behind him, launch himself up to grasp the bright yellow railings above the stairs and haul himself up.

The beast was hot on his heels, stomping the lower stairs, tearing panels off the catwalk off to try and make him fall. Bucky slid down into a gap between pipes, landing on the balls of his feet and hurrying through the maze.

It was silent. Too quiet. It didn't feel right. The Hulk wasn't going to give up that easy. Despite that, in the pause, Bucky's heartbeats began to ease. He inhaled deeply, just before rounding around a wide pipe.

The Hulk roared in his face, and a shout punched through his chest. He pulled his gun from his thigh and shot at a white pipe above the Hulk's head, running while he was hopefully distracted.

His wishes didn't come true. The Hulk barrelled after him, through the glass walkway in the midst of the confusing pipe system. Bucky raised his bent arms as he ran, using them to protect his face from the cascading shards and sparks of electricity.

A gigantic fist hit the side of his torso, tossing him through the air and into a metal pillar. He stumbled back up to his feet as the Hulk closed in on him, fixing his shaking body into a defensive stance.

**| 2013 |**

Bucky had never been on a Bus, but he had seen many of the model prints. It definitely came in handy, when Coulson summoned him. Weeks upon weeks of altercation reports had been flooding the Hub, and many times S.H.I.E.L.D. has wanted to step in, but they - mostly - held off.

The girl, Skye, she was talented. Driven, though troubled. Bucky knew that much.

He climbed the ramp, immediately coming face to face with Melinda and Ward. He nodded to the pair, feeling assured by the familiarity they carried.

"What _exactly_ are you doing here, Barnes?" Melinda asked, carefully punctuating her words with force. She crossed her arms over her chest, looking up at him with a blank face. It was hard to believe that this cast had once been a good friend, had smiled and laughed and bumped elbows with him.

He huffed, shoulders deflating. "Would you believe me if I said that Coulson wanted my presence?"

Behind Melinda, Ward snorted, barely concealing it. "Of course he did. He salivates whenever he sees your picture."

He shrugged. "Well, Ward, I'mma handsome guy, so I've heard. Which way is -"

"Captain! Goodness! It's an honor!" A chipper young woman with a long oval face and brown hair blew out of the lab behind Melinda and Ward, a boy following close behind her.

"Jemma -" he started. The Scottish accent was heavy and easily identifiable.

"Fitz!" she exclaimed back, under her breath.

"Fitz-Simmons?" he interrupted, sending a shy smile their way. They both looked at him with wide eyes. "I follow your work. I don't understand all of it, but my dream was to go into the scientific field or mathematics, way back when. Your work is astonishing and I love it." He turned back to Ward. "Where's Coulson?"

"He locked himself in his office as soon as Hand left," Fitz reported. "Centipede delivered a _major_ blow."

"Yeah." He frowned. "Centipede." He had met Mike Peterson - directed his training, made sure he was getting what a super soldier needed. Mike had trusted him enough to talk to him about his son, and Bucky felt honored. They had been close to friends.

"Is he going to be okay?" Simmons worried.

Bucky looked at Melinda, whose face was still, irritatingly, blank. He inhaled deeply, pushing his shoulders back. "Coulson's tough. Just give him time. Ward?"

Ward broke away from Melinda's side, starting toward the spiral metal staircase leading up into the rest of the Bus. Bucky followed suit, thumping up after him. Once they were out of earshot of the others, walking into a warmly lit lounge section, the newly Level Seven agent asked, "Let me guess - S.H.I.E.L.D. sent you to supervise?"

"Maybe. Who knows, I could've just wanted to catch up with my old pal Ward." He gestured at him with his chin. "How are you doing, being part of a team like this?"

"Below Coulson and May, I'm next in charge. Better than being the fourth wheel to you, Romanoff, and Barton. Barton never made me cookies for Valentine's Day, I felt left out." They came to a stop at a closed door clear on the other side of the plane. Ward nodded at it. "This is his office," he said, already backing away. "Good luck getting him to talk."

He only opened the office door wide enough to slip inside and slowly click it shut behind him, eyes on Phil Coulson the entire time. He wasn't sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn't brain scans and photos of a live medical operation sitting on the desk in front of a man he considered a friend.

"Do you ever wish that they left you to die?" Phil's voice was hard, but so, so soft. He had never been anything but strong, he carried himself with a sense of authority - he had to, considering his job. Even when he was off duty, he was still someone to turn a head at. But at that moment, he looked tired. Bone weary, defeated. The kind of tired that Bucky was _very_ familiar with.

Bucky grabbed one of the chairs in front of the desk, carrying it around the wooden furniture. This conversation wasn't going to be had sitting across a desk from each other. It was personal, so Bucky was going to get on the same side. When he sat down, he answered. His voice was careful, purposeful; "Every second. Some days are better than others. I just...have to keep moving." When Phil didn't reply, Bucky asked, "Did you just call me here to ask that?"

"No," he said, shortly, tossing the photo he was holding back into the pile. He turned his eyes back up to Bucky, taking in the suit with insignias on the shoulders - S.H.I.E.L.D. on the left, Avengers on the right. "I need you to keep an eye on them, at Sci-Tech."

He frowned. He'd heard of what happened. A group of Academy students had gone into one of the pools, that had completely frozen. "Phil, I can't run a mission where I could be frozen at any interval." He shook his head. "Especially if Nat or Clint aren't there. I can't risk that."

Phil leveled his breathing. "You don't have to breathe down their necks. Just make sure they stay safe. May and I are running our own mission. Fitz-Simmons are going to be distracted by their presentations. Skye is inexperienced, and she has a big personality that Ward can't wrangle. Just _accompany_ them."

Bucky sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. He stood up and said, after a few moments, "Fine. But if I get that ice treatment, you owe me Italian. Fancy wine, dessert, the whole shebang. Might even kiss you, if you're lucky." He gently clapped his friend on the shoulder, and picked the chair up to put it back in its original spot.

< | >

Bucky slid one of the last boxes up beside the bookshelf, sighing as he turned around to face Nat. She was splayed out along the blue couch Bucky had bought years before for the apartment in New York, decked in the truly elegant ensemble of Bucky's sweats and worn ballet flats, fiery hair unceremoniously pulled up into a messy bun on the crown of her head, held by a bright yellow scrunchie. Alpine nosed at her hair before jumping down, rushing after Liho to explore the place.

He hadn't brought too much from New York. What he hadn't either went back to Chrys or into S.H.I.E.L.D. storage. He had his essentials - the duffel bag he had never quite unpacked, his closet, kitchenware and bathroom items. He had some basic wants - books that had been long destroyed by an attack from an ink pen being run by an angry hand, family photos in frames or albums. Bucky was a person who ran on the basics in life. He had the things he needed, the few things he couldn't part with, and he lived fine with those limited things.

Nat was the same way. She had what she needed, some things she couldn't leave behind - things that, yes, held her from creating new lives, but things she cherished because they were _hers._ Her books mixed in with Bucky's on the new shelves, her two favorite nonstick pans got lost in the cupboard, her kitchen knives sets replaced Bucky's. Nat got the closet and Bucky got the dresser (besides his suits, which were made of material too tough to fold casually), which they saw as fair. Neither of them were picky. Nat's combat boots looked small and brand new where they were tucked beside Bucky's. Their dark jackets melted into each other on their hooks.

Moving to DC was definitely a change. Last time he was in the capital, that wasn't S.H.I.E.L.D. work or just a simple passing through, when he had actually had time to walk around, was to go through the Holocaust Memorial museum, see the World War II memorial, and hike through Arlington until he got to the Howling Commando shrine. He and Nat, after things from the Battle of New York settled, got reassigned to the Triskelion - the main S.H.I.E.L.D. database.

Bucky thought it might be nice to get out of New York. Trade busy city for busy city, but a complete different atmosphere. He was farther from his daughters, yeah, but he was able to afford taking the time to go see them. That made up for the distance.

"You get that last box," he said, giving up. Pushing her legs up and out of the way so he could sit down, he said, "It's just books."

He let her place her feet on his lap, and fit his palm over her shin. She mumbled, "Whatever," into the sleeves of his worn sweatshirt.

Bucky didn't let her go so easily. He weaseled his way in between her and the back of the couch, sliding his arm under her waist. He rested his head on her stomach, curling around her. He prodded at her thigh with his knuckle. "You know what today is?"

She hummed. "The day you get a calendar?"

"Nah. That'll never happen." He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her stomach through the layers she wore. "Nine years you've been stateside."

"Yeah?" She pushed at his shoulders until he sat up. She followed suit, turning herself around in his lap so she could lean into his embrace and the arm of the couch.

"Nine years," he repeated, running his palm up and down her thigh, soft from his worn sweatpants. "I'm happy we're doing this."

"Facing the world together, Barnes," she promised him again.

He dropped his face into her pale neck, the loose strands of her bun feather-light against his skin. He whispered into the hollow of her throat, "Together."

They never told each other, flat out, "I love you." Bucky's love stories turned into tragedies, and Nat didn't want to think about it. But they made up for the lack of verbal confirmations, letting their actions reverberate between them. They could see it in the sticky note messages left on bathroom mirrors, as they loyally watched each others' six, as they cuddled on the couch to watch movies, as they fit their bodies together and fell asleep enveloped in one another.

**| 2014 |**

"Y-E-S spells yes." Nat stared up at the rounded screen with a smirk on her lips. "Shall we play a game?"

He exclaimed, voice low, "You watched that?"

"Clint made me."

He scoffed, a light, amused sound. "Of course, he did."

" _Barnes_ -" Bucky's beg for humor died, replaced by an old, familiar fear. He froze at the very first word. "- _James Buchannan. Born, 1917. Romanova, Natalia Alianovna. Born, 1928._ "

Nat attempted to rationalize; "It's some kind of a recording."

The ugly, bright shade of green warbled over the screen, like the pitches of an audio recording. " _I am not a recording, Fräulein. I may not be the man I was when the Captain took me prisoner in 1945, but I am_." A picture of a face Bucky never wanted to see or think of again popped up on a smaller side screen.

"You know this thing?" she murmured, recognizing the face. She knew he did, but he had to say it.

Bucky made himself talk. "Arnim Zola was a Swiss scientist who worked for the Red Skull, Johann Schmidt. He's been dead since the seventies. I threw a party."

Natasha's eyebrows quirked at his final sentence, not able to decipher if he was kidding or not. He wasn't completely lying - he and Grant had gotten a drink, as celebration, once S.H.I.E.L.D. had sorted through the scientists from Paperclip.

Zola drawled on, " _First, thank you, Captain, for not calling me a German_."

"Doesn't matter," he said, breathlessly. His eyes raked across the room, at the rotating data wheels, the little camera on the central system that looked back and forth between he and Nat. "Nazi is a nazi."

" _Second, look around you. I have never been more_ alive. _In nineteen seventy two, I received a terminal diagnosis. Science could not save my body - my mind, however, that was worth saving; on two hundred thousand feet of data banks. You are standing in_ -"

"His brain." _Grant was here._ He turned around just enough to look past his shoulder, at the stain of rusty brown on the metal floor. _He died here._ He barely heard himself whisper, "What happened to his body?" The very idea of HYDRA having their hands on his son made him sick to his stomach.

" _The Soldier disposed of him_ ," Zola gave up the information, thoughtfully. Sickness settled deep in his stomach, a block in his chest that kept him from inhaling properly. He _knew_ it. He didn't want to think it, he didn't want it to he true, but the Winter Soldier had been on the other end of the phone.

The Winter Soldier, the only thing Grant was scared of, killed him.

" _Your son learned the truth, but didn't live to let it see the light of day. S.H.I.E.L.D. thought I could help their cause. I also helped my own_."

"HYDRA never had anything to do with S.H.I.E.L.D.," he snapped. He didn't want that to be true. How would he and Peg and Howard not know that HYDRA was under their nose? He couldn't believe that. He choked out, desperately, "You were undercover."

" _Cut off one head, two more shall take its place_."

"Show me."

" _Accessing archive_." The screen blinked, going dark before showing Schmidt's clean-shaven face. Bucky turned away from the photo, back to the old blood stain. " _HYDRA was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom. What we did not realize, was that if you try to take that freedom, they resist. The war taught us much. Humanity needed to surrender its freedom willingly. After the war, S.H.I.E.L.D. was founded, and I was recruited_." Bucky made himself turn back around. " _The new HYDRA grew; a beautiful parasite inside S.H.I.E.LD.. For seventy years, HYDRA has been secretly feeding crisis, reaping war_." A sleek limousine filled the screen, President Kennedy's head snapped back and blood flying in the air. " _And when history did not cooperate_ ," the red star on the metal shoulder came up, as well as the straightjacket-like uniform the Soldier wore, " _history was changed_."

Nat's breaths were loud in the quiet room, but soft behind the roar of his heartbeat. "That's impossible. S.H.I.E.LD. would have stopped you."

" _Accidents will happen_." Events from Bucky's life passed - few of the drawings came to light, then a picture of a snowy terrain, paths of red blood etched into the expanse. Followed by Steve's file, MISSING IN ACTION plastered over his face. Dernier joined it, then Howard, Grant, and Fury, all saying DECEASED. " _HYDRA created a world so chaotic that humanity is finally ready to sacrifice its freedom to gain its security. Once the purification process is complete, HYDRA's new world order will arise. We won, Captain. Your death amounts to the same as your life; a zero sum_."

His hands clenched around the shield. He forced himself to stay focused, demanding, "Tell me about the flashdrive."

" _Project Insight requires_...insight _,_ " he said, a sick joy to his artificial voice. " _So I wrote an algorithm_."

"What kind of algorithm? What does it do?"

" _The answer to your question is fascinating. Unfortunately, you shall be too dead to hear it_."

Bucky drove all the way back to DC, a shaking mess. Hands white-knuckled on the wheel, the explosion echoing in his ears. Once she was awake, he made Nat use her phone to track down a friend he had recently made; Sam Wilson, pararescue, the grandchild of a man Bucky knew back in the day. Keaton Wilson was getting arrested at a black rights protest in a town Bucky had been passing through. He couldn't stop himself from stepping in. Only a few hours later, they were settled into a small cell with one another, going from beguile small talk to in-depth conversations about activism and their families. Grant came to pay his bail - Bucky hadn't called anyone, he was ready to stay lounging on the metal bench with his forearm thrown over his face, but of course his government-official son knew - but Bucky went back to the station later that night, offering up the money he had made from working on a farm for a couple months. In return, the man had sworn a favor to Bucky. No expiration date, passed on from generation to generation, there for whenever he would need it. Bucky had been amused to the point of wheezing laughter when Sam, after meeting him on a run around the Reflecting Pool, had regaled to him how no one had believed his grandfather when he told his family that they owed a debt to Captain America.

Sam looked surprised when he came to the door. Bucky and Nat were covered in grime, looking beaten to all hell. He said, carefully, "Hey, man."

"Hey." Bucky hesitated, on the brink of rethinking everything. "...I'm gonna have to call in that favor."

< | >

Bucky didn't often get worried about Nat. But he was, when the Winter Soldier was flung off Sam's car.

The men with the machine guns were quick work, would have been even quicker if his body didn't ache from hitting a charter bus full-force. He raced through the highway, following the sound of an explosion he had heard barely minutes before.

The Soldier was standing on the hood of a car, gun aimed just past the one beside it. Bucky cleared the car in two great leaps, but no matter how quick he was the Soldier saw him coming - he quickly dropped his gun and swung his arm. Bucky got the shield in front of him just in time. The vibrations were absorbed into the metal, reflected into the space around them. The force sank through Bucky's bones.

The Soldier kicked him in the stomach, hard enough to knock him off the car. He let the force carry him into a reverse barrel-roll, coming back to his feet in a crouched stance, the shield in front of him. When the Soldier slid off the side of the car, Bucky propelled himself forward, going over the car to get the advantage of height, kicking the gun out of his metal hand when he was distracted by the jam. But the Soldier drew another gun - a smaller one - from one of his many holsters, shooting at Bucky as he moved in a arch around him.

Bucky swung the shield alongside his punch - the Soldier caught the rim, making shots over and underneath it. When Bucky was knocked back by a hard punch to the jaw, the Soldier twisted the shield in their grasps. Bucky let go, skipping back a few feet.

Get rid of the shield. It was in their way.

The Soldier hefted the shield on his arm, but then immediately flung it Bucky's way - he dodged it with a simple flinch of his left shoulder, turning his torso a hair before he would have been hit.

Bucky was thankful that he and Nat had been training together, because the Winter Soldier was even more relentless than he remembered. But the dance was still the same from when they fought in snow, and Bucky had gunshot wounds slowing him down. Defence, offence while the other was distracted or regrouping. The Soldier was ruthless - but Bucky was glad that he had no interest in civilians. He was focused, going only for his targets.

At least Bucky didn't have to worry about the people.

They traded sharp blows, making their shoulders snap back and forth as they moved with a rapid-fire speed. Almost immediately a long, thin knife entered the mix. Bucky blocked the incoming threat, using his forearms against the Soldier's. But he just used his expert skills, dropping it or flipping it into the other hand.

This was the first time Bucky had ever seen his enemy in broad daylight. Any other time, he was hidden in the dark - in a way he had been trained to do.

Bucky got sick of the defense. He aimed higher, his knuckles meeting the slice of cheekbone above the mask. The Soldier's head snapped back, and Bucky took the chance to twist into a roundhouse. His foot - he was wearing his old, ratty Converse for once, because he barely ever wore them and the media had never seen them - slammed into the leather-covered stomach, making the Soldier fly back into the van behind him. Bucky was back on him - jumping when he came close, pressing his knee into his chest to push him back into the vehicle. The Soldier pushed him off, using his defense instinct to make him move back.

Bucky caught the next punch - pinned his arm against the flat plain in front of his shoulder, and flipping him over and down. But the shoulder twisted as if he hadn't just taken the hit - got his feet on the asphalt beneath him and turned his stomach down. He reached up, taking a fistful of Bucky's collar. He pulled him close, glaring into his eyes. It made the incoming kill intimate, in some way. But before he could gouge that, he was flung away, knocked heels-over-head on the hood of the van.

He heard a couple loud thumps above him, and rolled out of the way a second before the metal fist crushed the pavement where his head had been.

He got back to his feet, restless and aggravated. This couldn't go on forever. They were equally matched, more or less. They met in a sloppy exchange of blows and blocks, slower than before, until the Soldier shoved him away. Bucky's shoulder met the van, making a dent in the side. He started to turn, but the Soldier was on him with the hilt of his knife nestled between his palms - Bucky caught his wrists, keeping the blade from his face, but he was no match for a continuous display against the cybernetic arm. He jerked his head to the side, letting the knife go through the metal beside his ear. He kicked at the Soldier's shin as he pushed the knife through the metal, trying to get at Bucky through it.

Bucky knocked him off balance at the end of the van, he stumbled into Bucky's lowered shoulder-level, and he used that to push him away. He heard the Soldier hit the ground, and he used his chance to grab his shield - he swung back around just as the Soldier was reaching out to him.

The rim of the shield jammed the metal plating. Bucky twisted under the arm, pressing his shoulder into the curve of his armpit, his left hand holding onto the metal wrist. He unlodged the shield and slammed upward, the edge hitting him under the mask. Bucky spun around to his other side, reaching behind his back and over the Soldier's shoulder - he grasped the mask over the mouth, and pulled.

The Soldier flipped over him, meeting the pavement with a well-executed roll, using the force to come back to his feet.

The mask had finally come off. Bucky lost hold of it when the Soldier had left his grasp, let it fall to the pavement between them.

And Bucky - finally, _finally,_ for the second time in his life - drowned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *as rifenstine (who my friend dubbed the Russian Makeup Lady)* AND WE ARE DONE!
> 
> Just kidding! You have seen that this is a series, right? 
> 
> There isn't going to be a full blown sequel. I just don't want to stop writing.
> 
> The second part of RTWOD will definitely be posted, coming VERY soon. It picks up right where we left off and stops in 2018. Because we need to see some active Stucky, okay?
> 
> There is a possible third and fourth, depending on how dedicated I am and if they actually turn out okay. Also on if I can follow my rule of ending each portion with a cliffhanger. From what little I've gathered (I don't want to give out TOO much info), the third would be pre and present Endgame, 2018-2023. The fourth would be the rest of the decade. I don't know how these will turn out. I'm going to give them a chance, but if they come out awkward in any way or something, they'll stay hidden.


End file.
